


Crush

by WaywardLass



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Awkward Crush, F/M, Friendship/Love, Holding a Torch, Humor, Longing, Romance, Slow Burn, Some Heartache, Stubborn People in Denial
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-31
Updated: 2018-03-08
Packaged: 2018-05-30 06:08:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 28
Words: 87,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6412099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WaywardLass/pseuds/WaywardLass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hawke is alarmed when she realizes she is harboring a crush on her closest friend and confidant. It'll pass, right?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not naming any names, but the guilty party involved knows this is her doing, planting the idea of Varric as a LI in my head. I've always loved Hawke and Varric's friendship. It's one of the strongest bonds, most constant loving relationships we get to actually see play out in the DA universe. What's not to admire? Varric is awesome: besides being a kick-ass marksman, he's funny, intelligent, kind, just, loyal, and a gifted storyteller. It's too bad he isn't a romance option, but I am able to live with that because I get to bring him around my adventures in game without too much emotional drama...But THEEEN...Someone asked "What if?" and that and some illustrations of Varric from the "Until We Sleep" comic got me thinking about this story. And here it is. Of course it is kinda AU, because V. isn't a romanceable character and in canon he already has a thing going on with Bianca Davri (which is bittersweet but so consistent with that romantic, idealistic, big softie at heart side of his he tries to hide)...Not all great loves need to be romantic or sexual...but in the land of crackfiction...I mean, fanfiction, all ships sail freely...

_When did it begin?_

 

Hawke joined the laughter around her self-consciously, a beat too late, jolted from her thoughts as she contemplated the man who was her closest friend, partner in crime, and business associate.

 

 _No. No. No_ , she chastised herself sternly, hiding behind another tankard of ale.

 

It had to be a whim, another caprice…She was forever fancying someone or another.

First it had been Anders, with that openly flirtatious manner of his that had prompted all kinds of devious thoughts in her head. She had clung to some very salacious fantasies even after Anders had disclosed the existence of Justice (“Oh, a _Threesome_!” she, for once, had only thought to herself). Then she’d believed herself hopelessly taken with Fenris. He’d occupied her thoughts almost obsessively until she realized how unsuited they were for each other: he was terribly moody and for good reason. His wounds ran deep and he was in no condition to engage in her mind games. For a very brief period, she had even contemplated a tryst with Isabela, the pirate’s openness to enjoying both sexes igniting a burning curiosity that consumed her day after day…for a short period of time. She’d given up on pursuing that option when she realized that Isabela appeared more interested in Aveline’s generous attributes than hers. Then there was that scrumptious Templar, Knight-Horror Meredith Ballbuster’s second-in-command, Cullen. Her eyes would often trail after him anytime her investigations into something or another involved Templar business and forced them to relay information to each other. He had a mix of characteristics that drove her practically wild: a strong, commanding presence, initiative and determination along with a shyness and reticence that made him deliciously irresistible. At one point, she had even let her thoughts wander to the Qunari leader, the Arishok, whose probing, intense stares she had mentally ascribed all sorts of seductive properties to.

 

            “Who is the poor victim this time?” Varric would grimace anytime he sensed a declaration of lust bubbling up from her.

 

He was the only one she made privy to her secret infatuations. He tended to be a good listener…when he wasn’t cackling at her imaginary paramours, that was.

 

 _Which makes my predicament all that more…predicament-y_ , she realized sheepishly.

 

She decided she just had to hold tight until that flightiness passed—just as all the others had.

 

She took a frothy sip of freshly poured ale and licked her lips pensively, lost in trying to fetter out some sensible thoughts. As she raised her eyes to Varric, across the table, she realized with a jolt that those brown eyes were examining her shrewdly.

 

            _It’s just Varric_ , she told herself, combating a flush of warmth climbing up her neck. _Good old Varric!_ she reasoned with herself. _Just my reliable buddy, nothing-new-to-see-here-Varric!_ she insisted.

 

            “You all right?” Anders leaned closer to her. “You look…a bit distraught,” he whispered.

 

            “You do know how to charm a woman, Anders,” she grumbled. “Let me enjoy my ale in peace. I certainly deserve it after that rain of assassins from the rooftops at the market square.”

 

            “As if it wasn’t enough to go around looking over our shoulders, now we have to look up, too,” Aveline complained.

 

            “I never thought I’d complain about it raining men,” Isabela sighed as her hands cupped her tankard. “You got hit pretty hard by that one assassin wielding a buckler, Aveline.”

 

Aveline nodded.

 

            “Scoundrel bashed me right in the shoulder. It’s aching quite a bit now,” she winced, rubbing her upper arm.

 

            “I’ve got some good salve for that,” Anders offered.

 

            “Ooh, and I can help you rub it on,” Isabela offered with ill-concealed eagerness.

 

Hawke caught Bethany tilting her head towards Fenris.

 

            “And how about you? You must have expended a lot of energy fighting tonight. It almost seemed like you were all over the battleground anytime I looked.”

 

            “I am fine,” the elf retorted curtly.

 

 _Unlike me, Bethany does not bestow her affections indiscriminately_ , Hawke noted.

 

Her sister had been trying to extend an olive branch to the brooding elf ever since the night they’d met. She suspected Bethany’s motivations were not as altruistic as she pretended them to be. She pressed her lips together thinking of all the heartache her sister was setting herself up for when her eyes caught the dwarf’s face as he spoke to their barmaid.

 _It is going to be fine_ , she thought hopefully. 

She stared at him as he spoke, a familiar smirk emerging on his lips.

 _It’s not like we’re each other’s type_. Her eyes traced his profile seeking confirmation, taking in the wide, broken nose she had gazed upon thousands of times, the shadow of stubble growing on his cheeks, and the small golden hoop dangling charmingly from his earlobe. _He’s more…rough_ , she concluded, watching his thick brows furrowing as he listened to the barmaid tell him something, a few loose wisps of gingery hair framing his face. _No_ , she gulped, her eyes following the chain hanging around his neck, his embroidered jacket undone in front, revealing a well-defined chest beneath coarse reddish hair.

            “Hawke,” he turned to her suddenly.

 

 _Sweet Andraste, was I thinking out loud again?_ She panicked, gripping the tankard’s handle.

 

            “We’ve got trouble,” he told her in that unmistakable voice that was at once gravelly, deep and melodious.  

 

All heads turned to her.

 

            “What’s new?” she frowned.

 

            “Apparently our new friends’ friends didn’t like that we survived their onslaught and are combing the streets of Lowtown for us. I just got word they’re heading this way next.”

 

            “We need to give the impression that we’ve been closed for a while, otherwise they might want to search the premises,” the barkeep, Hemming, explained nervously. “I can’t afford to be shut down for repairs again so soon…” he stated pointedly, glowering at Hawke.

 

            “I am deeply, deeply hurt. What’s a few gold pieces worth of damage when lives were saved?” she sulked.

 

            “…Says the person who didn’t have to pay any gold for these repairs…” Varric muttered, tossing coin to settle their tab over the table.

 

            “Should we sneak out the back door?” Bethany wondered, pushing her seat in.

 

            “The streets aren’t safe—won’t be for a while. It’s best you batter down here for the night,” Varric explained. “Hemming—any rooms available?”

 

            “You are in luck,” the man announced, quickly leafing through his ledger as the barmaids locked the door and began to extinguish the candles. As usual, their group was closing the place down. “One bedroom: two double beds.”

 

            “Do we get a discount?” Varric crossed his arms: a tell that revealed he was bracing himself to negotiate.

 

            “Do I get a thank you? We are full to the gills. You’re lucky I had a no-show,” Hemming huffed.

 

            “Fine, you greedy bastard, we’ll have to take it.”

 

* * *

 

 

            “Two double beds won’t fit everyone,” Bethany pointed out as they made their way quickly towards the stairs.

 

            “Let’s see,” Anders glanced at their raggedy group. “Fenris and Aveline in one bed…I don’t mind sharing with you, Bethany.” He raised a suggestive eyebrow at her.

 

Bethany cast her sister a flustered look.

 

“Actually, Bethany can have the bed to herself: Aveline can share my bed tonight,” Isabela suggested oh-so-helpfully.

 

Aveline cleared her throat.

 

            “Bethany and I can share a bed and Fenris and Anders can share the other.”

 

Anders and Fenris glared at each other with expressions of disdain.

 

            “I won’t sleep beside a mage.”

 

            “Then stay wide awake. See what I care,” Anders declared flippantly.

 

            “Fenris, you can sleep in my bed,” Isabela proposed suggestively.

 

            “I can sleep on the floor,” Fenris quickly amended.

 

            “Hawke—the usual?” Varric asked her.

 

She had been dreading the question.

 

            “Sure!” she shrugged, struggling to convey a casual indifference.

 

How often had she collapsed in Varric’s room, both of them toppling over the covers, falling into unconsciousness after their missions? First he let her stay with him out of pity: she hated her uncle’s shabby home. It wasn’t that she was finicky about the squalid accommodations—that did not bother her as much as the constant fighting between Gamlen and Leandra. Hardly a night went by without there being accusations flung, tears and wailing, and ugly threats dispensed. Then it just became a habit: she was either too drunk or too tired after missions to drag her sorry ass home.

 

She’d never thought twice about it before, often unceremoniously stripping down to her stockings and tunic before face planting over his bed. Sometimes they lay beside each other, backs touching, just rehashing events, crafting theories, or sharing stories. Varric was easy to talk to and even easier to listen to. She found his presence and voice soothing, his words reassuring. She’d often been lulled to sleep while he told her about Kirkwall, the unsuspected backstories of people they knew, the mysterious practices and rituals of the Dwarven Merchant Guild…

 

They were so close Anders had teased them before they all departed on a mission once.

 

            “Oh, look! Here are mom and dad,” he announced.

 

            “Have you been cheating on me?” Varric asked her, taking Anders’ ribbing in stride. “This one’s _definitely_ not mine,” he pointed at the impertinent mage.

 

            “He’s just something the cat brought in,” she’d grinned tartly.

 

As she followed Varric down the hallway that night, Isabela leaned out of her bedroom doorway:

 

            “Behave in there, you two.” She winked, teasing them as usual.

 

            “Don’t worry, we won’t do anything you wouldn’t do,” Varric provoked.

 

Hawke’s heart skipped a beat at the thought of Varric and she making as much noise as Isabela was wont to do anytime she had company...

 

That was not an image she needed in her head right then.


	2. Chapter 2

Part of the reason why they got away with so much at the Hanged Man was because Varric had been renting out their most luxurious room. Varric was, after all, the younger son of a dwarven noble house despite the fact he did not stand on any ceremony or formality.

 

Hawke stepped in right behind him into the sparse, but welcoming room. The fire crackled in the hearth, casting an inviting glow over the table he usually sat down to write and conduct his mercantile affairs at. A small lantern lit the adjacent bedroom, and she caught a glimpse of the red coverlet she had wrapped herself in so many times before. Varric latched the door and wandered tiredly towards the bedroom.

 

            “These late nights are finally getting to me,” he grumbled. “Why don’t we ever get ambushed during normal business hours?”

 

He leaned Bianca against the wall by the bed before dropping heavily onto the edge of the mattress to grapple with his boots. She remained by the doorway, mesmerized.

 

            _He has a strong face, distinctive features. He’s not handsome in a typical sense, is he? And yet, everything about him has become so…appealing._

 

            He tossed his boots aside and began to undo the sash around his waist.

 

            She had seen him bare-chested so many times, so why was that moment so enthralling? She couldn’t help gawking at the well-defined arms, accustomed to hauling Bianca’s weight and hefting the crossbow up effortlessly in the blink of an eye. She had always gazed upon him with nothing more than friendly affection before. As he leaned down, fussing with something, she couldn’t tear her eyes off his muscular back.

 

            When he looked up, he found her like that: staring, her mouth agape.

 

            “What are you doing?” he wondered.

 

She came to swiftly.

 

            “I must be overtired,” she exhaled. “Fell into a bit of a waking trance.”

 

He nodded slowly.

 

            “Yeah…you aren’t quite yourself tonight,” he agreed.

 

            “I just need a good night sleep.”

 

            “How do you think everyone’s getting along in that room?” he chuckled, sauntering towards the dresser.

 

He was rubbing his chest lazily and she caught herself drawing in a sharp breath.

 

_I wonder what it would feel like to run my fingers over that chest…_

She composed herself.

 

            “Uh…I think Aveline will ensure no fun of any kind is had.”

 

Varric grinned as he hung up his jacket.

 

            “Do you want to take a bath?” he asked suddenly. “Wash off the splatters of blood?”

 

She glanced towards the curtained off bathroom.

 

            “I prefer to bathe in the morning,” he explained, raising his arm and taking a whiff. “Passable,” he concluded. “Definitely one of the perks of ranged attacks: no bloodstains.”

 

Hawke made a face at him.

 

            “I don’t have anything else to wear, though,” she hesitantly explained.

 

Not only were her leather vest and trousers stained: her tunic was streaked with rusty splatters. She suspected there was some matted into her hair as well. “Maybe I should just crash on the floor,” she decided, looking at the thick-pilled rug at the bed's footboard.

 

Varric pondered that for a moment before snapping his fingers and burrowing his head deeply into his wardrobe.

 

            “Hang on!” he called to her. “I think I have something you can wear!”

 

After a few moments he fished a bundle out from the back. It was wrinkled and creased, but after she shook it open, she was able to see that it was a simple cotton shift.

 

            “You can wear that tonight,” he stated cheerfully. “Think it’ll fit?”

 

The shift was just a piece of layering clothing to be worn beneath a heavier gown or robe. It appeared to be more or less her size and even height.

 

            “Might work,” she told him.

 

She disappeared into the bathroom after he was done getting ready for bed, finding a small candle lighting the narrow, grey space. She shut the door, began filling the tub, and undressed while she waited, examining herself in the wide mirror along the wall. The face staring back at her from the mirror was an agreeable one—nothing terribly striking, though. She took after her father. Bethany, according to her parents and even Gamlen, was the family beauty: the spitting image of a younger Leandra.

 

            “You are your father’s daughter, through and through,” Leandra used to tease her.

 

            “Gee, thanks! What every girl wants to hear: you look like a _man_. Can’t wait for that beard and testicles to drop!” she’d complained.

 

            “Your father was very charming. Just…captivating,” Leandra confessed.

 

            “Yes: something… _magical_ about him!” she’d muttered sarcastically.

 

            “Marian, you can be so difficult…You know what I am trying to say,” she sighed. “Where you get that ornery nature of yours from…that is a mystery!”

 

            “Must be something in the local water,” she shrugged.

 

Leandra hadn’t spoken as lightheartedly to her since Carver. Now when Leandra contemplated her, she had the distinct impression she was looking right through her. Perhaps the sadness in her mother’s eyes was from the fact she reminded her of Malcolm Hawke. Perhaps it wasn’t sadness at all; she was well aware of the disappointment Leandra occasionally let slip over the fact Hawke hadn’t been able to thwart the charging ogre from pummeling her brother to death.

 

She thrust her chest forward and stared in the mirror.

 

_What do I have going here for me?_

 

Years of combat training had made her lean and firm. She flexed her muscles and then practiced a few sultry looks.

 

 _Maybe if I tousle the hair a bit…Let the shift droop seductively over my shoulder…_ She pursed her lips seductively at her reflection.

 

            “Don’t let the tub overflow,” Varric warned outside the door, startling her.

 

_Who am I fooling? I step out like that, he’ll ask me if was mauled by nugs._

 

She kicked the pile of soiled clothes to a corner and plunged into the tub, finding the water cooler than she would have liked, but definitely not frigid.

 

She perched her feet over the rim and tilted her head back. That was a luxury. Gamlen’s house had no such amenities: anytime she wanted to wash up, she needed to go out into the square to fill a bucket at the fountain and then sponge and rinse herself off over a shallow basin back home. One of the first extravagances she spent money on when she earned her first reward from a mission for Athenril was a trip to the public bathhouse.

 

She lathered up well, dismissing the twinges of arousal as her hands soaped up her breasts and when they lingered too long between her legs.

 

 _He is just outside the door_ , she thought impatiently. _Let’s just get through the night, incident free_.

 

When she was done, as she rose from the tub, rivulets of water streaming down her glistening body, she realized there was no towel.

 

            “Varric!” she called out.

 

She heard him stir in the other room.

 

            “There’s no towel,” she revealed.

 

            “Fuck’s sake…” she heard him mumble, followed by the sliding and slamming of a few drawers.

 

            “I’m coming in,” he cautioned her.

 

She sat back in the tub, drawing her knees up to her chest, terrified and exhilarated at once.

 

The door creaked open and a fluffy towel squarely smacked the back of her head.

 

            “Room service here leaves MUCH to be desired,” she complained, glancing over her shoulder, just as the door closed again.

 

 _He didn’t even try to sneak a peek_ , she lamented, slightly miffed. _But… what did I expect. Honestly. It’s Varric._ _For all his tough talking, streetwise ways_ , _he’s always conducted himself above reproach when it comes to women,_ she smirked.

 

It was just as well, because any lustful thoughts about him would have to remain fanciful, she concluded. She had never known Varric to take an interest in human women. Perhaps someday she would be able to tell him about the time his number had come up in the Hawke’s Infatuation-of-the-Week bingo game and they would laugh heartily at her delusion.

 

 _Right_? she consoled herself.

 

For some reason, the humor of the situation felt hollow.

 

She toweled off quickly, drained the tub, and rubbed some powder over her teeth with her finger as she leaned over the washbasin. The shift he’d given her was a bit tight—it fit snugly against her hips, but it would do.

 

            When she emerged into the bedroom, Varric lay in bed, immersed in a book, wearing only his breeches.

 

            “I used your teeth powder.”

 

            “Hmm,” he affirmed distractedly, without looking up.

 

            “I used your hairbrush, too,” she disclosed.

 

            “Uh-huh,” he muttered.

 

            “I also splashed on some of that fancy cologne you wear.”

 

He humored her and finally put down his book.

 

            “Now you’ve gone too far.”

 

She pointed at her outfit.

 

            “Speaking of outrageous behavior, let’s talk about this linen shift hidden in your wardrobe: how did I not know about this hobby of yours? Why didn’t you tell me before? You know I would never judge. Mock and laugh: yes. But never _judge_ ,” she deadpanned.

 

Varric shook his head at her in amused disbelief as he pulled down the covers on her side of the bed and pat the surface invitingly.

 

            “It’s not my shift, you buffoon.”

 

            “Oh! So did it come with the room’s furnishings from the last Age and dead Carta members under the bed?” she prodded, slipping into the bed beside him.

 

            “No,” he stated briskly, dimming the lamp to a weak glow. “And good night.”

 

She lay quietly, listening to him breathing for a few minutes.

 

            “Now I am intrigued!” she decided, rolling around to face him. “There’s a story behind this shift!” she concluded. “And I want to hear it.”

 

He muttered a few curses under his breath.

 

            “Come—tell me a story!” she goaded him on, snuggling into her pillow.

 

            “There is no story! The shift was left behind…by someone. That’s all.”

 

Hawke shot up, resting on an elbow.

 

            “Wait…Waaaaait.” Her eyes widened at the realization. “What are you saying? Is it what I think you’re saying?”

 

            “How could I ever fathom what your addled mind is concocting?” He rolled his eyes.

 

            “Are you telling me that a woman left her shift behind in your room?...May I inquire as to the circumstances that would have led to such an egregious act of forgetfulness?” she proceeded cheekily.

 

            “Gladly: we were both at the tavern downstairs engaging in conversation late one night…We enjoyed each other’s company… and ended up spending the night together…In the morning, when she gathered her belongings, she left it behind. By midday she had checked out and I never saw her again. Queue sunset: the end.”

 

Hawke scrunched her nose. The shift was long, though: it fell below her calves.

 

            “Varric, was she a dwarf?”

 

Varric rubbed his head impatiently.

 

            “No,” he retorted.

 

_Maker’s Balls!_

 

            “You mean she was…a _human_?”

 

He shrugged, nonplussed.

 

            “Yeah.”

 

That was a revelation. And not one that was helping her feeble attempts to quash her foolish crush. One of the few things she had been clinging to faithfully was the fact that she was thoroughly convinced that Varric would never be interested in humans in that way.

 

            “Maker! I think I liked it better when I thought the most astonishing thing you did was prance about in a cotton shift when no else was looking. You did it with…a human?” she whispered, intrigued. “Like, actual _sex_?”

 

Varric did not reply. Instead, he made a small, strangled noise and rolled away from her.

 

            “That is so fucking insulting, you have no idea!” he growled.

 

Her cheeks were stinging.

 

            “Well, excuse me! I was being candid because I count on you to set me straight about things I don’t know!” she cried. “No need to get all pissy! I didn’t think you were even _attracted_ to—”

 

            “Do the math, dingus,” he interrupted heatedly. “How many dwarven women do you think are available for a casual fling in Kirkwall? Last time I had any semblance of a romantic dalliance with a dwarven woman, it almost ended up in a war among members of the Guild… And my balls are still not in the safe and clear regarding that matter. So, unless I am willing to settle down and marry a nice dwarven lass, which like fuck I am, the only way I can ever hope to get laid is by enjoying myself with the occasional human woman who isn’t too hung up about height.”

 

            “Ok, ok! Can you pipe down now? All I meant was that I’m surprised you would…Isn’t it awkward at all?” she continued.

 

He glared at her incredulously.

 

            “Just…shut up!” he grumbled. “You are pissing me off so much right now.”

 

            “Wow!” She rolled away also, tugging the blanket protectively around her. “I was surprised—that’s all! No harm meant!”

 

He yanked the blanket towards himself, exposing her to the cool night air.

 

            “Not only is it not awkward, I can tell you right now: I’ve never had any complaints!”

 

She tore the blanket from his hands.

 

            “I think you are overreacting… a little!”

 

He cast her a suspicious glance.

 

            “Was that a dig at my height?”

 

            “Blazing Blight! Let it go! Excuse me for never imagining that anything of the sort could happen between you—”

 

            “Just because you can’t imagine it, doesn’t mean it doesn’t happen!”

 

Ugh. It was taking a lot of discipline not to imagine it right then.

 

            “You’re being a big prick right now.”

 

            “Good! Because if you had said ‘little,’ I’d have to kick you out,” he snapped.

 

She couldn’t help herself. That had actually been kind of funny.

 

            “What are you laughing at?” he asked exasperatedly.

 

That made her laugh even harder. He cast her a sly look out of the corner of his eyes and tried unsuccessfully to suppress a grin of his own.

 

He waited for her to stop giggling.

 

            “Look: I didn’t mean to insult you,” she began, once she caught her breath. “It’s just that I’ve never seen you courting a—”

 

            “Courting?” he cried out. “Whom? There’s no courting going on in a one-night stand. Courting!” he snorted, shaking his head. “Tell me: what are my ‘courting’ options? Aveline? She might as well be a dwarven heiress. A really tall one. Bethany and Merrill? Like kid sisters.”

 

            “What about Isabela?” she speculated.

 

            “She has propositioned me before,” he admitted, “but let me tell you this in strict confidence: I suspect courting me properly was the last thing on her dirty mind,” he stated sarcastically. “But I’ll keep her offer in mind should there ever be a drought.”

 

 _Wow. I’m not even in the running_ , she noticed sullenly. _And what the hell, Isabela! You’ve propositioned everyone except ME?_

 

They fell into an uneasy truce, each curling up away from the other, the blanket stretched tautly between them.

 

            “I’m sorry, Varric,” she finally offered, the silence between them weighing upon her.

 

            “Fine,” he replied after a few seconds. “Apology accepted: you’ve been enlightened. Now go to sleep.”

 

He settled over his pillow agitatedly. A few minutes passed by before she spoke up again.

 

            “Varric?”

 

He grunted.

 

            “Did you have this shift washed... since…?” She grimaced.

 

            “Maker preserve me: Go. To. Sleep!”

 

He reached out, shutting off the lantern on his nightstand. Darkness enveloped them.

 

             How the Fade was she supposed to sleep after that?

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

Nightmare number 1:

 

_The swarthy assassin hurtled down from the rooftop, daggers gleaming dangerously, aiming for her. Hawke struck him with a powerful kick as soon as he landed beside her and watched contemptuously as he staggered backwards, toppling onto the ground. Seizing the opportunity, she leapt on him, her own daggers unsheathed, and plunged the blades firmly into his chest._

_The assassin gurgled pathetically as he began to suffocate and uttered a raspy, “Marian?” as he expired._

_Before she could reply, she stared at the assassin’s face and only then noticed her assailant was none other than Carver._

 

She tossed and kicked up the covers, forcing herself to flee and shake off the unpleasant dream.

 

Nightmare number 2:

 

_A sensuous tangle of limbs floated before her eyes as a cloying, musky perfume enveloped her. Then…Darkness._

_The first face she was able to discern was Bethany’s. Everything around them was low lit, confusing. Bethany seemed…almost drugged: her eyes were unfocused, hooded._

_“Beth!” Hawke cried. “Are you all right?”_

_“Oh yes,” she sighed, biting her lower lip._

_It was at that moment that she noticed her sister was naked, lying on her back, her legs spread wide, offering herself wantonly to the white haired elf, who was kneeling before her, palming a massive erection._

_Even his cock had glowing lyrium markings running down it._

_Sweet Andraste, help me! she thought, wandering away dazedly._

_In another dim secluded corner, emerging between panels of billowing gauze curtains, she glimpsed a disoriented Aveline wearing nothing but a blindfold and silky small clothes, sitting tensely over satin bed sheets, her fists balled up beside her._

_“Aveline! Hang in there! I will save—”_

_And then she noticed the darker skinned hands sliding down suggestively over Aveline’s breasts, caressing them provocatively, tweaking the hard, pert nipples. Isabela emerged behind her, Hawke finally saw, her black luxurious hair spilling over Aveline’s pale freckled shoulders as the pirate seductively sucked on her neck._

_Aveline let out a moan as one of the hands that had been fondling her breasts slipped down further to disappear into her small clothes._

_Moving right along! Hawke decided uneasily, clutching at her chest._

_She found herself stumbling into a lavish room._

_Lying in a large bed, propped up against a pile of pillows was none other than Varric. He appeared to be gloriously naked, but she couldn’t really tell, because he was surrounded by gorgeous women: dwarven, elvhen, and human, engaged in various stages of worshipping him: one appeared to be suckling on his toes, while another was caressing his hairy chest sensuously. One of them was poised on all fours with her head nesting between his legs, making all kinds of moaning and slurping sounds._

_All of them wore white cotton shifts._

_I can’t even—_

_At that point someone tapped her on the shoulder and when she turned to look, found Anders grinning at her suggestively._

_In a fuzzy cat costume._

_Maker! Too fucking weird!_ she decided, rolling around in the bed again, shaking her head impatiently to force the last vestiges of the stupid sexy dream to dissolve.

 

Nightmare number 3:

 

_She did not recognize where she was; it was impossible to say. A secluded room? A cave?_

_Something rustled behind her, and she whirled around to meet it head on._

_Nothing._

_She remained vigilant, hyperaware of the slightest movement or sound behind her. She knew something lurked beyond her sight, but she could not glimpse anything in the inky darkness._

_A hand shot out of the shadows, seeking to grasp hers. Hawke startled and jumped back. The more she contemplated the outstretched hand, the more she realized its being there represented something ominous: it was too wizened, taloned. She seized it by the wrist instead and wrested its owner out of the gloom._

_To her horror, she realized to whom the beckoning hand belonged:_

_Darkspawn._

_The corpselike creature examined her with its opaquely clouded eyes, its flesh a grey hue, its face a taut mask of decay and rot around jagged teeth._

_“Awaken,” it hissed, its hand encircling her wrist._

_“No!” she cried out, trying to shake herself free of the creature’s grip._

_“Why do you fight?” the monster wondered, tilting its head unnervingly._

_“Let go!” she yelled, sensing the presence of other dakrspawn gradually shuffling out of the dark._

_Surrounded. And not a friendly dagger in sight._

_“Never be alone again,” it mocked._

_The darkspawn surrounded her, closing in._

_She could not breathe as they approached her, encircling her in the final steps of their predatory hunt._

 

* * *

 

 

Hawke shot up, chest heaving, a silent cry over her lips as she awoke.

 

Silence.

 

She raised a tremulous hand to her chest, eyes open wide, unable to focus on anything but the lingering images of that last nightmare.

 

 _Alone_ , she shuddered.

 

She startled at the unexpected touch: a firm hand that began circling over her back soothingly.

 

“Hawke?” Varric whispered.

 

She raised her head slightly.

 

“It was a bad one,” she uttered weakly. “A _really_ bad one,” her voice cracked.

 

“Yeah,” he murmured, still rubbing her back. “Sounded like it.”

 

He propped up his pillow.

 

“C’mere,” he invited her, making space for her beside him.

 

Still shaken, she docilely sidled up to him, resting her head next to his on the pillow.

 

“Want to talk about it?” he asked, turning to face her.

 

She shook her head.

 

“Whatever happened,” Varric continued, “it was just a bad dream.”

 

“There were darkspawn everywhere,” she disclosed. She was able to discern Varric’s features in the weak glow of the hearth. He stared at her with that devastating expression of concern. “And I think …they wanted me to join them.”

 

“Well, I’m glad you didn’t. I don’t think Archdemons offer good retirement pensions…”

 

She squinted at him.

 

“That’s just terrible…Here I am, confiding in you about something really horrible that I dreamed about and—” she started indignantly.

 

He chuckled softly.

 

“Don’t give it power over you—laugh it away, poke fun at it. Don’t take it seriously for a second.”

 

“I’m having some trouble finding the humorous angle of the dream in which I murdered Carver.”

 

“Maker, Hawke!…Again?”

 

“Almost every night,” she admitted.

 

He moved forward, gently resting his forehead against hers.

 

“When are you going to get it into that hard head of yours: Carver’s death wasn’t your fault,” he insisted.

 

He raised his rough hand to her cheek and began stroking her face.

 

She closed her eyes.

 

“Perhaps once everyone at home stops accusing me of it.”

 

His caress was so very comforting, she thought, savoring the feel of his skin against hers.

 

“You have no control over how they grieve,” he continued quietly. “And believe me, grief causes people to act in strange ways.”

 

She inhaled deeply. Varric was right, she knew. He usually was, when it came to things like people’s natures, their motivations; behind all the joking and ribbing, he tended to be insightful and observant.

 

 _Like all good storytellers_ , she realized.

 

“Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if I had anticipated Carver’s stupid plan. I should have ordered him to flank me. What if I had told him to stand guard and protect mother? What if—”

 

“In hindsight everything is obvious, isn’t it?” Varric tried to console her. “Look: it was chaos and mayhem. You did the best you could under the worst circumstances. And you know what?”

 

“What?”

 

“Carver was a warrior; he died honorably, doing what he was born to do. He defended his loved ones, in combat,” he completed somberly.

 

“That was _my_ job,” she retorted despondently.

 

Varric shushed her, tilting her head down to plant a small affectionate kiss on her forehead.

 

Timing, she’d later realize, led to what happened next—an innocent accident: as he lowered his head, she raised hers and suddenly their lips brushed over each other lightly. At the touch of his lips against hers, a jolt of desire coursed through her. Her ears thrummed with her own heartbeat in those few seconds when she wondered whether Varric would recoil... or as she hoped, proceed. She held still, expectantly, her eyes closed, their breaths warm against each other’s skin.

 

His lips grazed hers again, tantalizingly, suspended in a moment of indecision… before finally moving away.

 

Her eyes shot open, and she came face-to-face with him. His eyes were downcast, though, hiding behind a wall of thoughts, beyond her reach.

 

 _Ah, all right_ , she realized, a sting of embarrassment blooming over her face.

 

“Hawke,” he whispered.

 

 _Yeah, yeah_ , she panicked. _I will spare you from having to let me down gently and making everything awkward between us_. _It’s all right_ , she told herself.

 

She raised her hand to his shoulder, gripping it firmly, hearteningly.

 

“Thanks, Varric,” the words came out fainter than intended. “You’re a good friend.”

 

The stab of disappointment tempered the tenderness that had arisen within her moments before.

 

If her words had surprised him in any way, his behavior did not betray it. He offered her a quick smile before patting her face and removing his hand.

 

“Come on—let’s get some rest.”

 

“Yes,” she agreed, the awkwardness between them palpable as she sought to find her footing again. “I wonder what I’ll dream of next,” she sighed.

 

“Seneschal Bran,” Varric teased, turning away from her once more.

 

“Oooh, _that_ guy!” she thundered, incensed. Varric knew which buttons to push, bless him. “The irony of that uptight constipated asshole being called ‘Bran’!” Hawke huffed, a bit of relief emerging as she heard him chuckle.

 

 _Good_. That was familiar. That was safe.

 

She lay silently, aware of Varric’s proximity, lamenting the opportunity that wasn’t, dreading any negative repercussions.

 

They were fine. They would be fine, she told herself, despite the melancholy weighing upon her.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The POV is shifting to Varric now. I like the shifting perspectives, especially when examining a relationship: the POV will go back and forth between them.

            Varric lay wide awake, too conscious of the warmth of the body beside him, his eyes staring into the darkness as if seeking to glean something.

            Meaning? Revelation?

 Anything to make sense of the strange moment that had transpired between them.

 It had taken a terrific amount of restraint not to give in to the temptation of those soft lips, disappointed that he had allowed himself to go as far as he had. He was well aware that Hawke had been eyeing him differently. He knew her extremely well at that point not to recognize that look, the appraising stares, trailing glances. At first it had tickled him.

 _Well, she HAS lusted after everyone else; I was just about to be insulted by her omission_ , he’d thought with an amused, flattered satisfaction. _This should be entertaining while it lasts…_

 But that had been a lie, he knew:

 The truth was that it thrilled him to catch her eyes lingering upon him, even as she blushed at being caught. Her unwitting tells were as seductive as a direct invitation.

 When it came to Marian Hawke, the world wasn’t as black and white as he would have liked it to be.

He recalled the first he’d heard of her, yet another Fereldan refugee fleeing the Blight along with a ragtag team of destitute women. Tervald was a trusted associate and operative, keeping him abreast of events of interest in the city—shifts in alliances among the various factions in Lowtown and Darktown, new enterprises undertaken by smugglers, mercenaries, and other marginal groups. Tervald was also keeping an eye on Bertrand’s ever expanding financial exploits and interests for him. Varric would have had him do so anyway, even if his brother were more forthcoming about the Tethras family’s investments. The Dwarven Merchant Council was a den of sly old foxes and Varric much preferred to observe them from a bird’s eye view. Especially since how badly things had turned out with Bianca… He’d always remember how Tervald had stolen into the Hanged Man that evening, delighted that he was the one, for once, with the engaging story to share.

            “Gamlen’s nieces—old Kirkwaller family,” Tervald had explained.

Varric knew Gamlen in passing: a sad-eyed, ashen-faced drunkard who spent whatever coin he could amass at The Blooming Rose. Before then, he’d seen him as nothing more than another wastrel: his tale of entitled woe all too-common and tiresome.

He listened to Tervald with mild interest—he often had to separate the wheat from the chaff when he launched into one of his convoluted narratives. There were little gems to glean from his wordy reports, but also much yawn-inducing, eye-rubbing detail that was of little consequence. Why it was so difficult for anyone to piece together a good narrative stumped him: a beginning, middle, and conclusion that preferably tied up any loose ends was all that was required, really. All that meandering yammering from Tervald reminded him of the new literary genre that was all the rage in Orlais: some self-important movement that celebrated an unhealthy infatuation with deep navel-gazing.

He’d been using a recently acquired tome as kindling.

 _Give me a good picaresque story any day of the week instead over this drivel_ , he’d smirked, tearing the crisp pages from their binding.

            “Gamlen arranged to have either Athenril or the Red Iron band pay their bribe to be allowed into the city in exchange for a year of debt-servitude from his nieces,” Tervald explained.

Varric raised his eyes from his tawny brandy to the man.

            “Interesting. Are they that skilled?”

            “I haven’t seen it for myself: but the older one definitely caught both groups’ attention. Quelled a riot at the courtyard outside the city gates before the guard could summon reinforcements. Group of pissed off asylum-seekers tried to rush the sentinels to enter the city. Word is she is lightning fast, handy with a dagger.”

 Varric rewarded Tervald with a half grin.

_‘Lightning fast, handy with a dagger’ Not bad, old pal!_

            “So does this mean we will be watching Meeran a little more closely?” He arched an eyebrow.

He wasn’t fond of the mercenary. He disposed of lives too glibly for his liking. He wouldn’t be sorry to see the Red Iron rooted out, if the city ever got its act together. Unfortunately, the Templars were too busy roughing up mages who were already shackled and imprisoned to bother with the real emerging menace in Kirkwall: the rampant lawlessness and corruption that had seized the city.

            “What do you mean?” Tervald asked, confused.

Varric rubbed his cheek tiredly.

            “The refugee: she picked Meeran, obviously. Athenril doesn’t pull in half the profits he does.”

 Tervald smiled as if he were privy to a great secret.

            “That’s funny: I thought the same at first! It seemed like a no-brainer to me as well…But she chose _Athenril_.”

Varric’s eyes widened.

            “Daft like her uncle then!”

            “Apparently she met with both Athenril and Meeran and ended up negotiating some terms with the smugglers. She refuses to have anything to do with slavers and will not be used as an assassin. Asserted that she has no problem lying and stealing from the authorities…Claims to have had a lifetime of practice in doing so…”

            “Find out why,” Varric suggested, his curiosity piqued. _There’s a story there._ One he needed to know if Athenril was vying for enough power to rival the Coterie. “I don’t believe beggars can be choosers. There must be something else at work here.”

            After a few months, the tales of the Fereldan refugee who performed brazen heists began to reach him. After almost a year, Kirkwall had been cleared of some of the lower-ranking upstart thieving bands that had thrived amidst the city’s chaos. It was said she prowled the streets of Lowtown and Darktown scaring off rival bands and although challenging her directly was a foolish and deadly decision, it seemed like she preferred to incapacitate her defeated opponents so the Kirkwall guards could collect them during their patrols. It was even rumored that the Fereldan had established close contacts among the guard, something that made sense in light of how she always managed to steer clear of the guards' patrol routes with an admirable prescience and appeared to have hard-to-obtain intelligence: dates and times, contact names and locations. Athenril was prospering—and establishing a reputation as a key player in the city’s underworld.

            The first time he saw Hawke was in a market square in Hightown.

He’d been on his way to meet with Bartrand when he ran into his brother ushering out two women who appeared to be urging him to consider their plea to be added to his expedition roster into the Deep Roads. Varric had been hoping all along that deeper pockets among other dwarven families would leap at the opportunity. But Bartrand had been oddly adamant: he was going to fund the expedition on his own. He also controlled any information pertaining to the expedition zealously: he was worried someone else would seize on their plans before they were ready.

            “We can raise the gold ourselves,” Bartrand had insisted.

Varric hadn’t been so sure. They would not succeed without aid. Or a miracle. And there had been a dire shortage of both in Kirkwall.

He watched the distraught women engage in a heated conversation with each other after what had appeared to be a typically humiliating talking-down from Bartrand. He glanced at his asshole of a brother and shook his head before stopping to confer with an acquaintance—a dwarven business associate who ran a market stall.

            “That is Hawke,” Vassil muttered to Varric under his breath as one of the women began to walk in their direction.

            _She’s pretty_ , he thought, taking in the ample bosom, delicate features, and sleek dark hair that fell in a slight curl over her shoulders. She wore an attractive scoop necked blouse beneath light mail.

 _Rather impractical for close combat_ , isn't it? His brows furrowed, puzzling.

            “Not that one, that’s her sister… Betany, I think, or something,” Vassil nudged him. “That’s her—the other one.”

He shifted his eyes to the figure coming up behind the lovely young woman he’d been admiring.

  _Boyish_ , was his first impression of the scruffy woman: wiry, average-height, wearing stained leathers... and not as shapely as her sister. He could see a passing resemblance between the two women, although Hawke did not have ‘Betany’s’ natural elegance; her dark, unevenly cropped mop of hair did her no favors, either.

             _So this is the infamous Fereldan,_ he noted _. Not what I expected._

He’d imagined someone larger, brawnier, more intimidating, like the red-headed Captain of the Guard, a recent appointment after a sordid affair involving the guard and the Coterie came to light.

He had no doubt who had been behind exposing that plot…

He’d expected someone with a more jaded expression. Perhaps a scar and a world-weary air. At least, that’s how he would have written her. Instead, he found himself gazing at a pair of very intense hazel-colored eyes, a perturbingly charming expression of mischief emanating from them.

            “Aaah, this place is so much nicer than the crappy market near home, isn’t it?” Hawke walked past them obliviously.

            “Yes, but I don’t think we can afford anything here,” her sister had replied tersely. “Listen, Hawke… We need coin, status, something we can hide behind.”

            “And since when does looking around cost anything?” she shrugged, ignoring her sister. “Just take a deep breath of fresh air—”

            “It reeks of low tide,” the sister interrupted. “As long as we are refugees, we’re no one!” she resumed anxiously.

            “I like it- makes me hungry for... seafood stew,” Hawke mused longingly.

Varric couldn’t help a small smile. He liked the pungent odor himself.

            “If you’re not buying anything, then keep moving.” A haughty stall keeper who’d overheard them as they approached shooed them off

Hawke leaned over his tray of wares.

            “Ooh! What’s this?” she asked, pointing at a pastry.

             “It’s too expensive for you,” the vendor snapped.

 Varric’s smile faded.

             “How do you know that?” Hawke wondered, tilting her head at the man.

The man scoffed.

             “You Fereldans are all vagrants: you come here without a coin to your names. These here are _fine_ treats—too fine for your palates or purses.”

Hawke fiddled with her belt, pulling out a small pouch.

            “I would like one of those thingies there—the one with the white goopy stuff on top—”

            “That’s a delicate meringue,” the man hissed between his teeth.

            “I’d like to buy one, please,” Hawke declared.

            “And I’d like to see the money first,” the man demanded. “That’ll be fifteen coppers.”

Her sister glanced around uncomfortably. They were beginning to attract curious onlookers.

             “Of course,” Hawke nodded in a conciliatory gesture, fishing through her pouch.

She silently plunked down five coins, a small die carved in bone and a tuft of greyish lint.

            “What’s that?” the man sneered. “That’s only five copper.”

Hawke scratched her head dramatically. Her sister gripped her arm and tugged.

            “Let’s go,” she pleaded.

Varric was riveted by the odd scene unfolding before him.

            “I’ll take a third of the meringue dessert then,” Hawke stated.

The man puffed through his lips noisily.

            “That’s ridiculous! You buy them whole or not at all! Who buys a _tartlet_ by the _slice_?” he chided them arrogantly.

Varric felt compelled to step forward, pay for the sweet and introduce himself. It was a perfect opportunity, he decided, reaching inside his coat.

            “We’re very sorry,” the sister quickly apologized, an embarrassed grimace spreading across her face.

Hawke impassively collected her assortment of random items and dropped them back into her pouch. A modest crowd observed them now, quietly passing judgment. Varric held back, focusing on one particular face among the onlookers—that of a red-haired lad who had only caught the last half of Hawke’s act and had no idea that the items being collected into the coin pouch were worthless. Even in Hightown one should not go about flashing coin pouches so openly.

            “Move along,” the vendor shooed them.

They had just turned away when the vendor muttered audibly,

            “Fereldan trash.”

The sister’s eyes were downcast in humiliation, but Hawke halted in her tracks. Varric instinctively recognized a troublemaker when he saw one.

            “Excuse me,” she began affably, turning to the man again.

The vendor crossed his arms and glared.

            “What do you call those treats over there? The brown puffy ones?” she asked.

            “I told you already these are too—”

            “Bethany,” she cried excitedly, winking at her shaken sister, “Bethany, do you see what I see?”

 Bethany rallied somewhat.

            “Is it what I think it is?”

Varric grinned. He could tell Bethany had no idea what Hawke was up to, but was playing along gamely. She was bluffing and he knew it.

            “These are all _Fereldan_ desserts!” Hawke gushed loudly. “Look, Bethany! He’s got Mabari Turds!” She leaned towards a horrified by passer. “Mabari Turds, Maker be praised! Name sounds gross, but I assure you, they are _to die for_ , good serrah!” she stated with a broad, oafish grin, exaggerating her accent.

The vendor grew more and more incensed as the crowd around them began to disperse.

           "Bethany!” She grabbed her sister’s arm tightly. “I cannot believe it! He’s got King Calenhad’s Balls!” she yelled in her overdone Fereldan yokel drawl.

Varric turned his head to the side discreetly to suppress a laugh.

 The vendor went livid as all his well-heeled potential clientele dispersed, disgusted by either the description of the desserts or Hawke’s loud performance.

            “You’re scaring away customers!” he spat.

            “We’ll be out of your hair for two meringues,” Hawke stated, nose-to-nose with the man.

The vendor hastily plucked two little desserts from the tray and tossed them into Hawke’s outstretched hands.

            “Thank you,” she called out sweetly, turning on her heels.

 Varric watched the two sisters breeze away into the crowd, leisurely munching on their ill-begotten treats.

Of course, after that spectacle he absolutely had to meet her…and the chance to do so was about to make itself available, he realized, as the red-haired lad pushed off the wall he’d been leaning against and headed decisively towards Hawke, who was wiping her fingers over her leathers distractedly, a grin of contentment over her lips.

            Varric wove through the crowd, trailing them, reaching over his back for his crossbow and aiming at his approaching target.

The lad collided into Hawke, quickly swerving past her afterwards without as much as an apology before breaking out into a desperate run.

 Hawke frowned in annoyance, but then, almost as an afterthought, checked her belt for her coin pouch.

            “Hey!” she shouted crossly, immediately bursting into pursuit.

The lad was about to turn a street corner when an arrow pierced the air, effectively pinning the pickpocket by the shirt to the wall behind him.

 Varric lowered the crossbow with a smug expression and slung it back over his shoulder.

            “I knew a guy who could take every coin out of your pockets just by smiling at you.” He approached his hapless captive coolly. “But you? You don’t have the style to work Hightown, let alone the Merchants Guild.”

He had to be firm if he wanted to discourage the lad effectively. Hopefully the boy would be so humiliated afterwards that it would put an end to his budding career as a “redistributor of goods.”

He wordlessly extended his gloved hand and the thief contritely dropped the stolen pouch into it while trying to wrest the lodged arrow.

            “Might want to find yourself a new line of work,” Varric suggested, just before he cocked his arm back and rammed his fist into the thief’s jaw.

The thief’s head knocked back into the wall and he winced, dazedly. Varric reached up, seizing the arrow’s shaft and forcefully yanked it out. “Off you go,” he smirked, as the lad crumpled down along the wall.

He crossed the courtyard towards a wide-eyed Hawke and Bethany. Without a warning, he tossed the pouch at them. Hawk’s hand flew out, catching it midair. He couldn’t resist showing off, reveling in their speechlessness: he twirled the arrow skillfully between his fingers while casting them his cockiest grin.

            “How do you do? Varric Tethras, at your service.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some dialogue directly from the game (Varric's speech to the thief and Bethany's pleas that they do something about their precarious situation). I am not faithfully retelling events from the game, so pardon my digressions.


	5. Chapter 5

            They fell into step with each other with ease, instinctively. Varric noted that between them it was as if needless layers of cumbersome, leaden conversation could be done away with: one glance, sometimes just a gesture, was enough to convey intentions and attitudes to each other. And despite his love of words, of stringing them together to create his stories, he had to admit that it was a relief sometimes not to have to launch into an exposition to convey his every thought and impression.

 

He and Hawke had formed their own little dyad, complete with a wordless language.

 

The arch of an eyebrow and a sideways glance: _He’s lying._

 

The edge of lips turning down slightly: _Yep._

 

A quick nose scratch: _Shall I, or shall you?_

 

A step forward or a step backwards, and their hapless mark would soon find out.

 

In combat they moved together fluidly. Hawke was a shitty strategist, he soon learned, but she thrived in chaos; she was exceptionally good—and fast—on her feet. Like him, she did not resort to violence easily. She did not shirk away from acting when threatened, though, and watching her engage in combat gave him a rush. He often fought in the background, shooting his crossbow with steady precision. No one managed to sneak up on them on his watch and it was from the sidelines that he observed her move gracefully, fluidly, wielding her blades with deadly accuracy. In a scuffle it seemed like all her awkwardness was replaced with stoic composure. It was thrilling to look into her face and see a focused, serene calm over her features as she dealt mayhem. Not that he minded the awkwardness, though; he found it endearing..

 

As he grew to know her better, he learned that Hawke was daring, irreverent, and spontaneous. It also amused—and worried him—that she could be so unguarded and guileless.

 

And there was something else he picked up on, soon after they’d met:

 

Hawke was selflessly kind.

 

Beneath the rough, unpolished surface that bristled at pomp, rank, and tiresome social conventions, hid a deep aptitude for empathy. He understood that side of hers—heck, he had to admit he was that way as well…But she didn’t make an effort to be as discreet about it as well as he did.

 

She’d agreed so trustingly to partner up with him, to help him raise the 50 sovereigns for Bartrand’s expedition. Before she had joined up, Varric suspected the Deep Roads’ expedition would be nothing more than his brother’s nebulous, whimsical machination, the pursuit of an ideal that would never materialize and ruin them in the process. Once she had come on board, though, he began to accept that there was a possibility they would be able to pull the expedition off, after all. She had managed to recruit the elusive and reclusive Grey Warden Anders and obtained rare maps of the tangled mess that was the Deep Roads. Varric had circled the man for months before, unsure as to the best way of approaching him without tripping off his alarms and risking that he’d go even farther underground.

 

Anders, he knew, thanks to his network of contacts, was also an apostate mage.

 

He remembered lurking with Hawke and Bethany outside Anders’ clinic, as he shared his findings with them.

 

            “How about if the two of you go inside, pretend one of you has an ailment, and meet with him.”

 

            “That is wrong,” Hawke concluded before entering the humble clinic.

 

            “This is your conclusion because…?” he encouraged her.

 

            “He’s a mage. An apostate in Kirkwall,” Hawke began, glancing at Bethany. “In _Kirkwall_ ,” she emphasized. “And he’s all alone. But he isn’t hiding—he’s actually helping people. I think I like this guy already. So: the man’s either off his rocker or an incarnation of Andraste. I mean, if I were an apostate mage, I’d be, like, fuck this shithole crawling with Templars, I’m hiding out ANYWHERE else! Right?” she nodded at her sister, squeezing her arm playfully.

 

            Bethany groaned. “Like we had a choice.”

 

Varric raised his chin towards the clinic.

 

            “So what’s the plan?” Back then he still gave her the benefit of the doubt.

 

Hawke narrowed her eyes and stared at the doorway pensively for several minutes.

 

            “I got it,” she finally declared.

 

            “I’m listening,” Varric urged her on.

 

            “So: we all walk in and introduce ourselves and then ask him nicely for the maps.”

 

Varric slapped his forehead.

 

            “That’s your plan? It should go over well! Should we wear Templar costumes, too? Improvise a little pantomime while we’re at it?”

 

            “Feel my pain, Varric,” Bethany pressed her lips sympathetically.

 

            “I’m not going to go inside and lie to a _Grey Warden_ who is putting his neck on the line to provide aid and comfort to Fereldan refugees in a place where no one would otherwise give a damn about their suffering,” Hawke stated.

 

            “And if he doesn’t cooperate?”

 

            “He will,” Hawke winked. “Because…Look at this place! I want to volunteer and help him. We’re going to be good friends—you’ll see.”

 

Both Varric and Bethany balked.

 

            “What volunteering?”

 

            “Are you delusional?”

 

But Hawke marched right in, and Varric followed her, his heart in his throat.

 

            They didn’t raise any suspicions once they stepped into the clinic. The woman guarding the curtained off entrance was Fereldan and was put at ease by Hawke and Bethany, recognizing their accent at once.

 

            “We’d like to see the healer,” Hawke explained. “It’ll only take a minute and it could prove helpful.”

 

            “He’s completely busy for the rest of the afternoon. Perhaps I can get you in later on this week?” the woman apologized.

 

Hawke nodded, but after a moment, laid out a few silver coins on the counter wordlessly.

 

The woman’s eyes widened.

 

            “It’s a donation: I’m guessing you could use more potions, unguents, or bandages?” Hawke explained.

 

Varric felt a squeeze to his heart and made a mental note to buy the two sisters a good dinner that night. It was the end of the week and he knew Hawke hadn’t done any work for Athenril recently to justify that little extravagance.

 

            “That’s very generous of you,” the woman began cautiously, itching to scoop up the money. “But…I have some truly ill people waiting here. It’s not fair—”

 

            “I’m not asking for anything,” Hawke stated confusedly. “It’s a donation: honest,” she argued.

 

The woman took the money, nodding, flustered.

 

            “Thank you, serrah. This is a kindness you extend our cause—” she quickly offered, gratefully.

 

            Hawke waved her hand dismissively.

 

            “So when do you think we’ll be able to stop in later on this week?”

 

            “Please have a seat and give me a minute.” She indicated a row of benches by the entrance. “I need to see,” she explained, pulling out a heavy tome.

 

As they wandered to the crowded space, edging past tired-faced women clutching wailing babes, haggard men waiting stoically, and dodged the occasional volley of phlegmy coughs, Varric confronted her.

 

            “I thought we agreed I’d handle any bribing,” he chided her in an impatient whisper. “Now you are broke and we are no closer to achieving anything.”

 

Hawke frowned.

 

            “It wasn’t a bribe.”

 

He stared at her incredulously, about to lecture her on her spendthrift ways, when he noticed the distress she was in. Her eyes darted among the grubby faces frozen in masks of suffering around them and he sensed the enormous helplessness she experienced. Her fists clenched and unclenched again and again as she sat up rigidly, in nervous alertness. She smiled sadly at a small child clutching her mother and peering back at them out of her watery, crusty eyes.

 

            “This is wrong,” Hawke muttered to him abruptly, ill-contained emotion in her voice. “No one should have to live this way: without hope, in fear, ravaged by common illnesses that have cures.” She shook her head, her eyes glistening.

 

Varric realized a few things about Hawke right then.

 

The first was that Hawke was dangerous.

 

She wouldn’t be bought off conveniently like a common mercenary. She was idealistic. Whether that was a good or bad thing remained to be seen.

 

The second was that there was something incredibly vulnerable and fragile about the woman. She harbored many hurts, but instead of rendering her bitter or indifferent, they made her more determined, more passionate.

 

She was a rare person, he understood, taking in her fierce expression, and at that moment he was overwhelmed by a desire to comfort her, hold her close.

 

Instead, he reached for the balled up fist resting on her knee. At first she tensed at his touch, but after a moment reciprocated the gesture, lacing her fingers between his, tightly. She turned to face him and blinked at him slowly, and an unmistakable tenderness spread through him at the warm, trusting look she awarded him.

 

            _Ah, this is not good_ , he noted to himself disconcertedly.

 

The woman behind the counter cleared her throat.

 

            “Serrah? A moment, please,” she waved them back up.

 

They startled and made their way back to her.

 

            “This is the most money we have been given in…a long time,” the woman whispered. “And it is very much appreciated…and needed,” she confided. “I will not ignore this generosity: he has a very brief opening after the patient he is in with now. I’ll allow you to have a word with him.”

 

Hawke stared back at the waiting crowd.

 

            “But...All these people…”

 

            “Don’t worry,” the woman reassured her. “They will be seen. Every single one.” She held the curtain obstructing the doorway aside for them to pass through.

 

* * *

 

 

            Warden Anders had been casting a healing spell on a young boy stretched over a cot when they wandered into the dimly lit room. As he withdrew his hands, they watched him stumble back, weakened. Varric noticed the boy stir in the cot as if he were merely awaking from an ordinary nap. He had no idea what had ailed the child, but given the clasped hands all around them and the declamation of platitudes folks usually uttered at such times, it must have been a remarkable cure.

 

The mage hunched over, spent from his latest effort and they hesitated before moving any closer. They needn’t have worried: the healer whirled around to face them, his staff clinched in one hand while the other hand rose warningly at them.

 

They held still.

 

“I have made this place a sanctum of healing and salvation! Why do you threaten it?” he challenged them.

 

The three stood bewildered before the menacing mage.

 

            “Whooa!” Hawke raised her hands in a gesture of appeasement. “Why do you think?...”

 

His eyes were fixed on Bethany.

 

 _He senses her magic_ , Varric concluded. He must have felt threatened.

 

Hawke grabbed her sister by the shoulders and thrust her forward.

 

“Hi! I’m Hawke, he’s Varric, and this is my sister Bethany: she is an apostate mage… Just like you!”

 

            “Hello,” Bethany waved with resignation. “I’ve got one of those ‘walking sticks’ too,” she pointed knowingly at the staff strapped across her back.

 

Anders stared at the odd trio with befuddlement.

 

            “What?” he began, snorting lightly as he lowered his staff. “What on earth do you people want?”

 

Varric was about to launch into an eloquently convoluted narrative with the aim of getting the mage to disclose, on his own terms, his connection to the Wardens and whether or not he was willing to surrender his maps of the Deep Roads.

 

Instead, Hawke interrupted him.

 

            “I want to know about the Deep Roads.”

 

            _What? Fuck! No, Hawke!_ Varric groaned to himself.

 

            Anders’ expression hardened again.

 

            “Did the Wardens send you to bring me back?” he asked suspiciously. “I’m not going!” he warned them. “Those bastards made me get rid of my cat. Poor Ser Pounce-a-Lot. He hated the Deep Roads.”

 

Varric stared at the man in disbelief, noticing how quickly his initial awe was eroding into exasperation. _Great! A kook._

 

Hawke nodded sympathetically.

 

“You had a cat named Ser Pounce-a-Lot? In the Deep Roads?”

 

“He was a gift,” Anders explained. “A noble beast…Almost got ripped in half by a genlock once. He swatted the bugger on the nose. Drew blood, too!” he revealed proudly. “The Blighted Wardens said he made me too soft. I had to give him to a friend in Amaranthine.”

 

“Bastards,” Hawke commiserated. “You know, we have a mabari at home. Our uncle said we’re not supposed to and that the landlord might charge us more or even kick us out if he finds out, so anytime he barks, we pretend our uncle is having an attack of croup.”

 

The Warden finally cracked a smile at her.

 

_Here we go._

 

Varric straightened up hopefully.

 

* * *

 

 

They left with a promise of aid: the maps in exchange for help with a personal matter. Anders would stop by the Hanged Man later on to fill them in on the details.

 

As excited as he was about the prospect of slamming down a handful of maps to the Deep Roads before his arrogant brother, something about the mage made him uneasy. He was guarded enough, which was natural, he supposed, but he didn’t like the ease with which he’d slipped into a chummy rapport with Hawke.

 

They’d bantered a bit. At one point, Hawke had saucily told him,

 

            “I need to know how to get into the Deep Roads. You can tell me, willingly, or not…”

 

He rested his hand over his hip while appraising her.

 

            “Don’t threaten _me_ , little girl,” he’d begun, eyeing her amusedly.

 

It had all been a little feather ruffing, he knew, and ultimately it had worked out in their favor…But he hadn’t been entertained at all by Anders’ brazen flirtatiousness.

 

            As they walked back towards their neighborhood in Lowtown, Hawke went on about the meeting, speaking to him in a low voice so Bethany, wandering further behind, wouldn’t overhear them.

 

            “What do you think?”

 

            “I think the Wardens are wondering if Ser Pounce-a-Lot would have made a better conscript,” Varric grumbled.

 

            “No, no…that’s not what I meant! I think he’s interesting… Don’t you?”

 

            “If you’re into eccentric oddities, perhaps,” Varric quipped.

 

            “I felt a connection,” she nodded to him. “I think it was, like… instant attraction. Sparks!”

 

Varric’s eyes narrowed.

 

            “No, the sparks were real. He was about to smoke our asses with that staff of his.”

 

            “I think something good could happen between us,” she continued, obliviously. “He’s kind of cute… Got that trendy apostate-in-hiding appeal going for him: messy ponytail, pre-Blight threads, sexy stubble…”

 

Varric couldn’t tell if she was joking or not. He felt his stomach sink each time she mentioned him so cheerfully, a light in her eyes.

 

            “Think he could fall for all my dazzling charms?” Her hands waved past her rather flat figure.

 

He forced himself to smile.

 

            “Hm. Maybe once we all come back from the expedition, you and he can open a clinic and cat sanctuary and live happily ever after,” he teased.

 

            “I dunno if I can wait that long. I may need him to show me his…um…other staff… sooner!” she cackled, startling Bethany.

 

Varric grimaced.

 

            “Ugh, gross. I think that’s my breakfast coming back up.”

 

            “Do you feel sick? Let’s go back to the clinic!” she cried out giddily, trying to steer him around by grasping him by the shoulders.

 

He swatted her hands away.

 

            “Oh, come on…You _know_ I’m kidding,” she sighed, looking down. “But it doesn’t hurt to imagine…”

 

He smirked and shook his head at her.

 

 _Yes, it does_ , he thought, surprising himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All of Anders' dialogue is from the game. Really!


	6. Chapter 6

Soon after they had recruited Anders, Varric found himself taking cover in a narrow back alley, huddling with the others while an alarm was sounded from the Chantry. Only a few feet away, Templars’ boots pounded the ground, their heavy armor clanking and jostling as they passed by in a blur. Varric held his breath. If any one of those Templars decided to cast something to track the faintest vestiges of magic right there, they would all be done for. One glance over his shoulder revealed a pathetic scene: Bethany, crouching beside him, her face frozen in an expression of abject terror, Anders, behind her, his hardened glare focused on the activity beyond the alley, and Hawke at the very end, emitting a strong pissed-off vibe.

They finally risked scurrying from their hiding place once things appeared to quiet down. He and Hawke knew that if they lingered in the alley for too long, they were likely to end up being trapped and discovered. The Templars were still scattered, rushing inside the Chantry building, trying to make sense of why they'd been summoned. It was only a matter of minutes before they began dispersing to establish a perimeter, fanning their search out further. It was time to move. Hawke led the way, stealthily weaving through shadow, guiding them silently down deserted streets, on a heightened lookout for undesirable activity. They managed to reach the guard’s headquarters at the Keep, where they could count on receiving shelter from Aveline, the Captain of the Guard.

 

Aveline greeted them warily.

 

            “What is it now?” she whispered.

 

Only a few guards remained in the foyer at that hour: a few sentinels, a couple patrolmen finishing a report, and another guard preparing to retire for the night. Aveline was the only one among the guards who resided in the barracks full time.

 

            “I have come to offer our services! Does the guard need our help on any missions tonight?” Hawke delivered theatrically.

 

Varric lowered his head and rubbed his forehead. She was a hopeless ham.

 

Aveline frowned, examining her friends' blood streaked faces, and rapidly ushered them towards her private office before anyone took real interest in them.

 

            “Not tonight,” she replied loudly, for the benefit of anyone who might have been listening in. “But there is another matter I’d like to consult with you about—a smuggling ring operating from the docks…” she embellished.

 

When the door was firmly locked behind her, she crossed her arms and took in their exhausted faces.

 

            “All right. Who is going to tell me what happened?”

 

            “That’s what _I_ want to know!" Hawke beat her chest with a splayed hand. "What the Fade just happened?” She leaned out of their lineup to glower at Anders.

 

            “There were Templars _everywhere_ ,” Bethany shivered, a haunted look on her face.

 

            “You could have told us you were a healer AND a fucking nightlight!” Hawke accused Anders.

 

Aveline glanced uneasily at Varric. He rubbed his face again. Anders did not react to her words; he remained sullen and quiet.

 

            “I thought we were just doing a courteous pickup at the Chantry. If I had known our activities tonight would have included putting a poor Tranquil mage out of his misery and fighting a bunch of Templars, I would have never dragged my poor sister to this shitstorm!” Hawke indicated a cowed Bethany, sitting on one of Aveline’s chairs. She pointed at Anders. “And you have some explaining to do! What was all that…glowing?” she gesticulated exasperatedly, at a loss for words. “And don’t try to deflect the question and be all funny and clever, saying something like you were having gas, because Maker help me, I’m going to—”

 

            “Hawke,” Varric interrupted. “Sit down,” he ordered her calmly.

 

Aveline waited patiently, still staring at Varric. Hawke pressed her lips and scrunched her nose briefly before leaning against Aveline's desk quietly.

 

Satisfied he’d gotten her to quiet down somewhat, he began to explain to Aveline what had happened.

 

            “We almost fell into a trap,” Varric began. “We went to the Chantry tonight to help spring Anders’ old friend loose…but it turns out someone was using him as bait to lure us out.”

 

            “Not just _someone_ ,” Anders snapped. “Otto Alrik,” he muttered darkly. “I swear I will avenge Karl.”

 

            “Apparently, Ander's friend was rendered Tranquil as punishment for exchanging correspondence with him,” Varric continued. Aveline’s face clouded. “Once we showed up, guess what lay in wait for us…”

 

Aveline clucked.

 

            “What a mess.”

 

            “Let’s take bets on what the official story is going to be tomorrow morning: "Apostates broke into the Chantry, Templars were killed in a scuffle...” Varric proposed. "I don't think Meredith will mind that we didn't wrap this present to her."

 

The redhead frowned.

 

            “I hope you are wrong, Varric. The Knight-Commander has seized any and all opportunities to give her Templars even broader powers. They overrule the guard’s authority and jurisdiction as it is. I pray we don’t get another official proclamation declaring greater penalties for anyone aiding and abetting mages,” she lamented.

 

Varric apprised her of a few more details while the others settled around the office tiredly.

 

            “Wait another hour- make it look like you're in here sorting through some evidence I've shown you,” Aveline proposed. “Your being here gives you a believable alibi,” she explained. “So stay put and you can follow me when I and a few of my men go on patrol. We can walk down together: I have a beat along the docks today—I wasn’t lying about that smuggling ring.”

 

They wiped off the blood the best they could. Bethany curled up into the chair and fell into an uneasy slumber. Anders also surrendered to sleep, sprawling over the rug.

 

Hawke sat leaning against the wall, next to Varric. They both stared ahead despondently, bone-tired.

 

He shook his head and snorted.

 

            “I don’t know why anything surprises me anymore,” he mumbled.

 

Hawke dragged herself closer and dropped her head on his shoulder.

 

            “What are you doing?” he wondered, gazing at the tousled hair before his face.

 

            “Do you ever think of writing all of this stuff down?” she wondered.

 

            “Sometimes,” he admitted. “But who would want to hear about all this crap we wade through?”

 

            “I would,” she confessed. “You have a way of making it sound so…so… _badass_.”

 

            “I suppose you can’t make this stuff up,” he murmured, his nose and lips brushing over strands of her hair. It was fine, soft, and smelled of soap.

 

            “You should write about all the messes we find ourselves in,” she yawned.

 

He nodded.

 

            “Mhm. Come to think about it: I do have a lot of material already.”

 

            “If you do ever commit our adventures to writing, you have to promise me one thing.”

 

            “What?”

          

            "Promise!" she demanded.

 

            "I don't even know what I am promising...but fine!" he sighed.

 

            “You better describe me like Genevieve Feathers,” she warned him.

 

He burst out laughing at her request to portray her as one of the sultry, alluring exotic dancers at The Blooming Rose.

 

            “Gimme some real good cleavage too,” she chuckled. “And a cool tattoo.”

 

He was still grinning.

 

            “A tattoo of what?” he humored her.

 

            “I dunno…A dragon…” she suggested.

 

            “How about a spray of roses on your shoulder—you’d rarely wear sleeves...or much of anything, anyway,” he joked.

 

            “I like it! I like it!” she concurred, snuggling up closer to him. “Although we both know what any tattoo I get should say.”

 

            “What’s that?” he asked, enjoying her proximity, her head resting on his shoulder, that silly conversation he could only ever indulge with her.

 

            “It would be written across my forehead and it would say: ‘If found, please return to The Hanged Man.'”

 

He chuckled.

 

            “You know what the only good thing about this rotten city is?” she continued sleepily.

 

            “What’s that?” He rested his head over hers and let his bleary eyes close.

 

            “You,” she whispered.

 

He brushed his forehead over her hair affectionately.

 

Even as they both gave in to their exhaustion and would later wake up complaining about the stiffness that had settled in their limbs, the faint smile remained on Varric’s lips long after they’d fallen asleep.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back to Hawke's POV: the morning after...

When Hawke awoke that morning she found herself alone in the bed. Outside, the lively chatter and closing of doors indicated the maids were going about their daily chores, visiting the rooms. She squinted and gathered she had overslept. When she emerged at the doorway, she met with the grumpy glares of the awaiting maids. She had probably held them up by not being up and out of the room.

       “Morning,” she muttered, rubbing her sleep swollen eyes, a tired expression on her face, her hair uncombed.

       "Serrah,” they acknowledged patiently.

In the main room of the tavern, she found Bethany and Anders conversing over a platter of various breakfast meats. Merrill had joined them and sat expectantly before an untouched loaf of dark bread.

       “Where’s everyone?” Hawke croaked, smacking her dry lips.

       “Rough night?” Anders asked.

       “First: good morning,” Bethany censured her. “And second: it’s about time you got up.”

       “Aveline had to go back to headquarters, Fenris had to go home and brood, Isabela went back to bed, not sure if alone, and Varric had business to attend to,” Anders tallied.

       “Muh,” she puffed, dropping onto a chair around their table. “That could mean anything with him.”

       “He said to order breakfast—it’s on him today.”

She grinned impishly.

       “And what the fuck? So you order the meek people special?” She poked at the hearty slabs of blood sausage. “We should get the quail with almonds or something outrageous—make him foam at the mouth,” she chuckled.

She looked at the bright-eyed elvhen woman.

       “Merrill…you missed a hell of a sleepover last night. We giggled, did each other’s hair, and fought to the death against assassins!” she teased.

       “Oh!” she interjected. “I heard all about it. Also: something about how Aveline snores?”

Bethany and Anders groaned as they remembered.

       “What’s this here?” Hawke prodded the stout loaf of bread.

Merrill grinned, sitting up in the chair excitedly.

       “I baked it myself!” she announced.

Out of the corners of her eyes she caught Bethany and Anders shaking their heads discreetly.

       “That’s pretty amazing, Merrill! So that bastard landlord of yours finally sent someone over to fix that busted oven?”

Merrill continued smiling, not replying. Hawke tilted her head expectantly.

       “Well…noooo,” Merrill began cautiously. “I…I used a little magic.”

Hawke cast a curious look around the table.

       “So you bombarded the bread with fire bolts? Is that why you’re here now? Because the alienage has been burned to the ground?”

       “Blood magic bread,” Anders mouthed so no one could overhear them.

Bethany shook her head reproachfully.

       “It was actually safer than using a real fire!” Merrill argued.

       “Sorry, Merrill. I prefer my bread without a side helping of abomination,” Hawke apologized.

Merrill looked completely crestfallen.

       “It’s perfectly fine!” she insisted, upset. When confronted with the skeptical stares, her shoulders slumped forward, discouragedly.

Hawke had a soft spot for the mage. Merrill meant well. Maker knew her good intentions had wrought an inadvertent share of mishaps, but she doubted the petite mage had a mean, selfish bone in her that a demon could latch onto.

       “You know what? This looks delicious. I’m having some!” She deliberately made a show of seizing the knife and cutting a large slice.

Merrill’s eyes widened with glee.

       “Oh, yes! Please do!”

       “Yep. Any moment now,” she declared, eyeing the dark slab on her plate.

With a deep breath she brought the bread to her mouth and bit off a small piece. All three watched her wordlessly.

_A little chewy and heavy, but overall Merrill can start her own demonic bakery._

       “Delicious,” she declared.

Merrill’s smile was radiant.

       “Thank you, Hawke. I am so happy you like it. I baked it for all of you,” she said sweetly.

       _That’s it, you ingrates!_

Hawke reached for the platter and cut another two slices.

       “Here,” she slapped a slice down on Bethany’s plate. “Eat the bread,” she ordered testily.

Bethany winced.

       “It’s fucking delicious,” Hawk growled.

She grabbed the other slice and rammed it against Anders closed mouth.

       “Eat it. Now,” she threatened.

 When Varric returned, he found all three munching morosely while Merrill clasped her hands delightedly.

       “What’s going on?” he asked.

 Anders and Bethany glared at him.

       “We are enjoying some fine bread made by our very own Merrill here,” Hawke mumbled, swallowing a large bite.

Varric sat beside her and signaled Hemming to bring him a place setting.

      “It’s demonic bread,” she told him quietly when Merrill began talking to Anders about something else. “Baked with love… and blood magic.”

      “Maker!” Varric cast her a panicked glance. “Should you?...”

      “How can I say no?” she shrugged. “She looked so sad when no one would touch her bread. She baked us all _bread_. Who does anything for us for free, out of the kindness of their hearts? It’s not bad—I mean, recipe could use some tweaking: we could probably do some damage if we used it as ballast on a trebuchet—but it’s good, hearty stuff. I am sure it’ll put some hair on my chest…and perhaps some horns on my head,” she confided.

 Varric pressed his lips, holding back a chuckle. He speared a slab of ham with a spare knife and sat back in his chair.

 She watched him surreptitiously and tried not to start when he raised his honey-colored eyes back to her.

      “So where were you off to so early this morning, Messere Tethras?”

He laid down the knife.

     _Those lips_ , she admired, trying not to stare. The memory of those shapely lips brushing hers the previous night was putting her in a little dither.

     “Old acquaintance is in town,” he replied cryptically.

     “Dwarven Council shit?” she wondered.

     “No,” he shook his head, brushing his hand over the table’s surface.           

     “Is this something from one of your ‘associates’ from the Carta, Red Iron?...”

He shook his head once more, hastily.

     “The Jousting Troubadours?…Qunari Chantry Choir?” she teased. He snorted lightly. “Hope I don’t seem too nosy, because I AM totally being nosy,” she grinned.

     “No…” His expression clouded. “It’s someone…from a long time ago. Really long, rambling story,” he apologized.

 Hawke folded her arms over the table and rested her head over them while peering at the dwarf’s face.

     _Huh._ _Seems serious_ , she concluded, recognizing the troubled stare.

    “Is it the shift lady?” she whispered in a spooked tone. “Is she here to kick my ass for wearing her stuff?”

 At that Varric’s expression softened.

     “You are such a jerk.”

 She smiled.

     _I don’t like to see him upset_ , she thought.

     “It’s…someone I was involved with when I was younger. She’s in town for a bit. Wants to talk. Needs a favor. I don’t know if I want to go through with it,” he sighed.

     “Would I know her?”

     “No. Bianca doesn’t live in Kirkwall anymore—passes through once in a while only.”

     “Bianca?” Hawke leaned in closer, stupefied. “Like of Bianca-Crossbow-of-Mayhem fame?”

 Varric contemplated her with amused surprise.

     “Shit—you _do_ listen when I tell you stuff! I have to be careful!”

 Hawke felt a little shiver run down her spine.

_He’s gonna do it for her. Because he’s that kind of guy._

 She offered him a slice of Merrill’s bread.

     “Here—have some! You’ll feel _much_ better: maybe the voices you’ll start to hear in your head will give you some good advice!”

 Varric’s lips curled up into a half grin.

      “All right. Let’s do this, Daisy!” he announced, grabbing his piece and ceremoniously tapping it as if it were a tankard against Hawke’s hunk of bread.

 They could barely contain their laughter when they caught glimpses of each other’s faces chewing the bread laboriously.

 Hawke didn’t want to think of this other woman who had laid claim to Varric’s affection and appeared to still loom large in his sentimental landscape.

      _Because she had her shot and blew it_ , Hawke reasoned, tearing through the last of her slice. _I might just be his good buddy, but I get to be by his side_.

      _I wish, though_ — Her eyes shifted away. _I need to stop this nonsense. This is fine_! she told herself curtly. _And it’s better than nothing at all._


	8. Chapter 8

         That night lively music roused the modest crowd at the Hanged Man, the conversation among Hawke and the others interrupted by enthusiastic applause. Fenris bristled as people bumped into him as they leaped up and cheered. Hawke leaned over the table, shouting to Varric.

 

            “What possessed Hemming to do this?”

 

Varric shrugged.

 

            “Said he was trying to diversify the clientele a bit. Told me he was tired of getting the same shady drunken criminals and perverts,” he smirked.

 

            “Anders, Hemming must have been referring to you!” Hawke reached around Aveline and shook his shoulder.

 

            “It’s a great idea. Now he will get _musical_ shady drunken criminals and perverts,” Anders deadpanned.

 

            “It’s not that bad.” Aveline tapped her fingers on the tabletop as the next set began.

 

They all settled back into their chairs to listen.

 

It was nice to hear music for a change, Hawke found—the musicians were fairly skilled and their songs were cheerful, carousing numbers that had the tavern’s patrons that night joining in, even if drunkenly. Hawke didn’t know any of the songs—theirs seemed to be a repertoire of Kirkwaller favorites. She doubted she would have known many Fereldan songs either, though. A life lived on the lam didn’t allow for much tavern music appreciation. It did make conversation that night difficult and she was grateful when the musicians announced they would be taking a break. She, Bethany, and Isabela sat at the very end of the table, with Isabela seated at the head, and Hawke and Bethany flanking her on opposite sides. The others in their group were engrossed in their own conversations, further away from them.

 

            “It’s not such a terrible idea that Hemming’s had,” Isabela stated, surveying the crowded room. “I do see several new faces…Could be interesting…”

 

Hawke looked over her shoulder. The barmaids swerved past the patrons hefting their large trays while Hemming plunked down freshly filled tankards behind the bar.

 

            “It’s nice to have a little variety in one’s diet,” Isabela grinned, settling her gaze over a tall brawny man leaning against the bar, sipping a glass of wine. “Oh, yes…very nice,” she purred.

 

Hawke gave him the once-over and turned back to the pirate.

 

            “What? Just like that? But you don’t know anything about him. He’s handsome, but what if he’s, like, a dud in bed?” she argued.

 

Isabela laughed, amused.

 

            “Sweet thing, I’ve sailed the seas enough to know where to dock my ship,” she winked.

 

            Hawke tilted her head in confusion.

 

            “It’s a metaphor,” Bethany added dryly.

 

            “I know that,” Hawke snapped, “I was just wondering how she could be so sure—”

 

Isabela sighed, placing down her tankard, trying to decide if she wanted to pursue that conversation further or not.

 

            “Look,” she finally began. “Some of it is experience, some of it instinct. You can learn a lot about someone just by looking at them. I’ve become very good at reading people,” she explained. “It’s a skill I’ve had to develop to survive. I often have to make snap judgments about virtual strangers and decide matters on the fly: can I trust them to have my back? Do they seem like they can remain steady in combat? Are they going to run away? Sell me out? Come too soon all over my breasts and then leave me hanging?”

 

Hawke spat out her ale and Bethany’s eyes were wide with shock.

 

Isabela laughed merrily. “Those are all important questions!”

 

            “So…”Hawke dabbed at her mouth with the napkin. “What do your well-honed senses tell you about the messere at the bar?”

 

Isabela examined the man appraisingly.

 

            “Well, I can tell from the clothes he’s wearing that he’s fairly well-to-do. He’s got a nice patina of wear and dust over his boots, so I know he travels a lot. Probably a merchant or tradesman.” She stared some more. “Hmm…More likely a merchant…” she concluded. “His hands are too fine and his nails too clean. He’s a little more refined, too.”

 

Both Bethany and she snuck another look.

 

            “He’s been enjoying a glass of wine, not ale,” she pointed out. “And here’s an added bonus: he’s not married.”

 

Hawke’s eyes dropped to his hands. There was no evidence of a wedding band.

 

            “But he could have hidden his ring,” she argued.

 

            “No,” Isabela shook her head. “I can tell. Married men have this… caginess about them…or they are too eager to bank on their temporary freedom. He’s not married. Look at him: he’s relaxed…confident— nothing to hide and obviously available if something interesting comes his way…Oh, and it will. Most definitely,” she smiled slyly.

 

            “Huh,” Hawke concluded. “That’s pretty impressive…But how do you know he’ll be good in bed?”

 

Isabela leaned towards the table.

 

            “That’s harder to explain,” she confided. “But look at how he holds himself up: he’s got charm and knows how to use it. It’s in little things: for example, the nice clothes, that little gold earring dangling from his earlobe…He’s a little vain…just enough…he wants to convey a sense of adventure…I bet he’s fun in bed,” she mused.

 

Gold earrings. Hawke peeked down the table at Varric. He was in the middle of a conversation with Fenris and Aveline. A gold cuff and an earring on his right ear glinted as he moved his head.

 

 _Varric has a total of three earrings_ , _if I count the cuff_ , she inhaled deeply. _If one earring equals fun in bed, then three earrings…Oh my._

 

            “And then, of course, there’s the fact his trousers are doing a fabulous job of outlining his generous package,” Isabela rolled her eyes coyly. “That’s the first thing I noticed—otherwise I wouldn’t have bothered with the rest…”

 

            Bethany blushed.

 

            “I’m even more accurate when I actually know something about the people I am evaluating,” Isabela bragged.

 

            “Well, duh,” Hawke quipped. “I wonder how you’d guess I’m not married. Is it the fact I don’t have a husband?”

 

The pirate pursed her lips.

 

            “No, it’s the fact you are a royal pain in the ass…But that’s not what I meant: I meant predicting what someone is like… in bed.”

 

Hawke’s eyebrows shot up.

 

            “Oh really?” she challenged.

 

            “Oh yes,” Isabela countered.

 

            “Fine.” Hawke sat back. “Tell me what you’ve managed to gather about…Bethany!”

 

            “Marian!” Bethany cried out indignantly.

 

            “Go, go!” Hawke egged Isabela on. “Let’s see if you’ve got my sister figured out.”

 

Isabela leaned forward in her chair, resting her arms over the table, scrutinizing Bethany with her deep brown eyes.

 

            “Ah…Bethany…” she murmured appreciatively.

 

Bethany leaned back, silent, as if expecting her to read her fortune like an augur.

 

            “Sweet…pure. You haven’t known the intimate touch of a man yet, have you?” Isabela began in a quiet tone. “Hmm…I am guessing you have had your share of stolen kisses and perhaps a few more daring caresses…but not much beyond that…”

 

            “Blights do put a crimp in one’s love life,” Hawke mumbled.

 

Bethany shushed her impatiently.

 

“You are deeply emotional—like most mages are, by the way—and don’t discern between sex and romance,” Isabela stated pensively. Hawke’s lips puckered in amazement and Bethany shot her a warning glare. “Any man vying for your favor must earn your affections first…But when he does…” Isabela turned her head to glance down the table at Fenris who was shaking his head at something Varric was saying, “Maker… he will find in you an eager, sensitive, and giving lover…”

 

Both Hawke and Bethany exchanged stupefied glances.

 

            “How did I do?” Isabela asked cockily.

 

            “Holy shit.”

 

            “Shut up,” Bethany censured her sister. “Can you do Fenris next, please?” she begged in a hushed voice.

 

            Isabela tossed her head back and laughed heartily.

 

* * *

 

 

The two of them huddled around Isabela while the others chatted on without paying them much heed.

 

            “Fenris,” Isabela began in that low, hypnotic tone, “is very complicated. He knows how to please,” she explained. “He was probably trained carefully to do so…and ordered to satisfy his master on demand. He was a powerful and rich Tevinter magistrate’s slave. A handsome one at that...highly prized and admired, too. Sex was probably something abhorrent to him…I wonder if he can ever heal from the damage.”

 

Bethany’s hand shot up to cover her mouth, a pained expression in her eyes.

 

            “Poor Fenris,” she whispered.

 

            “Who knows, though? Now that he is free…He’s a young man. He might still have those urges and desires stirring within and might be moved to finding an outlet for them… Perhaps if he meets a partner who is patient, willing to give him the space to act on his terms, at the right time…Respecting his limits and letting him take the lead…He’d be a loyal, caring, and very intense lover, I am sure of it.”

 

Isabela patted Bethany’s arm reassuringly.

 

            “But it will take a lot of patience… and restraint.”

 

She peered back at the elf.

 

            “More than I have these days, anyway,” Isabela smirked.

 

Bethany nodded, awed.

 

            “Now Anders,” Hawke prodded her.

 

The pirate grinned impishly.

 

            “Anders is easy…” she chuckled. “And I mean that literally: he is perpetually horny. He can go from 0 to 100 in a minute. One moment you’re in the clinic showing him a superficial blade cut on your upper leg, and he’s treating it professionally, seriously, disinfecting it, dabbing medicine on it, and then, all you need to do is say “Kiss it better?” in a suggestive tone and before you know it, you’re both rolling around half naked in a cot, with his stubble scraping against the skin of your thighs and his tongue licking your—”

 

            “Okay! That one most definitely doesn’t count,” Hawke interrupted crossly as Bethany’s nose practically took a dive into her tankard.

 

            “Why not?” she asked.

 

            “Because that’s not perception. That actually _happened_ , didn’t it?” Hawke smirked.

 

Isabela sniffed.

 

            “Maybe.”

 

            “What about…Hmm…Merrill,” Hawke continued, cautious not to get to Varric too quickly.

 

            “I will say one last thing about Anders,” Isabela continued confidentially. “He has tons of stamina, enthusiasm, and isn’t shy …and is he ever skilled with that tongue of his…” she recalled with a dreamy expression over her face. “But I should warn you: he’s kinky. Very. Even by my standards. Lots of neck biting and meowing.”

 

            “Maker,” Bethany muttered.

 

            “Merrill,” she acknowledged, glancing at the delicate elvhen woman. “Do I have to?” she sighed. “Lots of hugging, tickling, and giggling. Possibly rainbows. And that’s just foreplay.”

 

Bethany squinted.

 

“That’s not very nice…”

 

            “Fine: sincere, devoted, and tender.” Isabella shrugged. “It’s fairly obvious, no?”

 

The three of them watched Merrill smile at Anders, who was definitely on a jeremiad from the way he was wagging his finger at everyone.

 

            “Now…” Isabela began again, more sultrily. “I bet you have no idea who the best lover among us is…other than myself, of course.”

 

            “Who?” Bethany wondered.

 

Isabela’s lips parted with a knowing smile.

 

            “Varric,” she declared.

 

Hawke remained still in her seat.

 

 _Careful_ , she cautioned herself. _Don’t seem too interested._

 

Isabela’s eyes shifted to her mischievously.

 

            “Varric?” Bethany huddled closer, a bit incredulously. “What do you mean…Like, with another dwarf?”

 

_Ah, Bethany. You, too, hold such misconceptions, huh? Yes…the Hawke girls’ practical education is sorely lacking._

 

Hawke seized her tankard and gulped down some bitter-flavored ale to settle her nerves.

 

Isabela laughed mockingly.

 

            “Why? Because he is shorter than you? That doesn’t preclude him from having sex with a human or anyone else,” she stated suggestively. “Let me tell you something, ladies…Dwarves make amazing lovers,” she declared pointedly.

 

Bethany grinned.

 

            “Really?” she asked, a twinge of incredulity in her voice.

 

            “What you see as a disadvantage is actually an advantage.”

 

            “How so?” Bethany insisted.

 

 _Thank you, thank you_ , Hawke thought gratefully to her curious sister.

 

            “Well, look at him. His legs may be shorter than the average human’s, but he’s not little—his arms are so strong—have you ever actually felt them? They’re no smaller than anyone else’s here. And look at his hands,” she jutted her chin towards him. “Those are a man’s hands, lest there be any doubt.”

 

Hawke found her eye starting to twitch slightly. She discreetly raised her hand to rub it.

 

            “Trust me: he’s not lacking in the size department, if you know what I mean…”

 

            “Is there something wrong with your eye?” Bethany interrupted, noticing her discomfort.

 

            “Nothing, nothing…Just some dust or something.”

 

            “Anyway,” Isabela proceeded, “his anatomy is not even where his main talent lies…I don’t know how it is back in Orzammar, but I do know that any surface dwarf hoping to get banged by a human or elvhen partner needs to be really perceptive and willing to please…and the mismatched height issue makes them so fucking creative.” She sighed. “I’ve been with three different dwarves so far: one woman and two men and every single one was pretty amazing and definitely unforgettable.”

 

            “It isn’t strange at all?” Bethany wondered, growing flushed.

 

            “What is strange about a partner who is willing to try various positions throughout the night? Because those dwarves, let me tell you, they are strong and they can keep going and nothing makes them hornier than seeing you get off because of what they’re doing.”

 

Hawke felt faint.

 

 _Wow_.

 

            “Now Varric here,” she murmured, their three heads bunched closely together. “He’s a fine looking man. Look at that manly face—he’s no pretty boy. He’s all male, virile,” she inhaled lustily. “He’s comfortable in his skin and he knows he’s sexy. Look at that chest—he wears that tunic of his unbuttoned and you can see those taut muscles…You KNOW he knows what effect that has on women…Oh, I’d love to rake my fingers over his chest hair while I’m straddling his—”

 

Hawke almost lost her balance and knocked her silverware off the table accidentally. The others paused their conversations to look back at them.

 

            “I’m okay! I’m okay!” Hawke laughed shakily, swooping down to grab a fallen spoon.

 

            “So, as I was saying,” Isabela resumed once the others turned away, “Varric is probably an amazing lay. No doubt about it. He’s got those sensitive fingers of his that can pick the toughest locks…can you imagine what service they could provide for a woman?...And you know, for all the tough attitude he sports, he strikes me as a genuinely good man. He’s intelligent, articulate, imaginative…I suspect there is a whole other layer of depth to him that only someone he allows to know him intimately sees. That’s a man who feels deeply, passionately. I bet he makes any partner of his feel wanted, cherished, beautiful…In his experienced arms she’s not just a lover, she is his love,” she concluded wistfully.

 

            All three of them stared at the dwarf, who remained oblivious to their ogling.

 

            “What are you three whispering about?” Aveline inquired, turning to Hawke.

 

            Isabela strategically rested her hand over Aveline’s.

 

            “I’d love to tell you. You seem so tense…why don’t we take our tankards back to my room, get comfortable, and I could share some of the topics that came up in our conversation tonight—”

 

Aveline rolled her eyes and turned back to the other conversation.

 

Isabela sighed.

 

            “Aveline: uptight, repressed…just bursting at the seams and I just wish she’d let me undo those tight, tight knots for her. Aveline is a romantic, but I am willing to stake any future ship I come to command again betting that while she seems like a prude, once she gets going she likes it a little dirty, messy, and rough…” She inhaled deeply. “Damn you, Aveline. Oh well. I tried. Messere handsome at the bar will have to do tonight,” she decided, rising from her chair.

 

            Hawke watched her cut in between the crowd and her mark. The man’s eyes lit up at the sight of the alluring pirate openly flirting with him.

 

            “That was very interesting,” Bethany finally managed to say.

 

Hawke nodded, still a bit dazed.

 

            “But she didn’t say anything about you!” she teased.

 

She grinned.

 

            “I’m an enigma,” she joked.

 

            “I’m actually impressed,” Bethany admitted. “She’s pretty good…” She ran her fingers along the side of the cold tankard. “I think it left me a little hot and bothered,” she laughed sheepishly.

 

 _And I need a fucking vat of ice_ , she thought.

 

            “It’s actually not that hard to read people like Isabela does,” Hawke told her.

 

Bethany cast her a skeptical look and crossed her arms.

 

            “Oh? Fine: you try now. Let’s see what you are able to discern.”

 

Hawke raised her hands to her temples dramatically, rubbing them for effect.

 

            “M’kay…Let me tell you about…the Arishok!” she began.

 

Bethany let out a delighted laugh.

 

            “He appears to be stoic, unfeeling, unemotional…but that’s just a façade,” Hawke continued hammily. “In reality, he needs to be held after making sweet tender love and likes to hold hands during long walks on the beach.”

 

Behind her, the band of musicians lined up, walking back towards their instruments on the improvised stage.

 

            “Also, he has a big cock,” Hawke stated firmly.

 

Unfortunately, her declaration coincided with a sudden silence befalling the room as the tavern patrons quieted down in expectation of more music. Her affirmative “he has a big cock” was the only thing heard throughout the tavern.

 

Hawke glanced at Bethany with an alarmed look. Bethany remained frozen as well beneath all the silent stares.

 

            “Is that a musical request, serrah?” the wiseass singer called out to her.

 

The room erupted in laughter and Hawke let her forehead rest over the table in complete mortification.

 

_I can’t catch a break._

* * *

 

Varric contributed to the laughter around him, shaking his head at Hawke’s poor timing. He couldn’t decide what was more hilarious—how the singer ribbed her or the expression on her face. He kept glancing at her, a chuckle rising up now and then as Aveline and Bethany pat her back, trying to console her.

 

It was all quintessential Hawke.

 

 _But who the hell was she talking about?_ he thought curiously with a sharp pang of jealousy. _Who supposedly has this ‘big cock’ she was babbling on about?_ he wondered, peeved, casting an irritated glare around the room.

 

He rubbed his forehead as if trying to wipe away disturbing thoughts.

 

            _Maker, why does she get under my skin like this?_ he sulked, trying to focus on the band.


	9. Chapter 9

            “I think I’ve got it!” Varric announced, waving some fancy stationery with a broken red wax seal at them as he sauntered into Aveline’s meeting room the next morning.

 

            Hawke looked up at him from the desk.

 

            “Worry no more: I found a way to approach the Viscount without having to deal with his seneschal!”

 

            “Fucking Bran…” Hawke clenched her jaw.

 

He plunked down what appeared to be a floridly worded letter on the desk.

 

            Aveline picked it up and browsed through it.

 

            “This is addressed to Bartrand, though.”

 

Varric shrugged.

 

            “Like it matters! He won’t go anyways. He can barely stand attending the Dwarven Merchant Council’s affairs as it is! I’ll represent our House.”

 

Isabela reached over, plucking the invitation from Aveline’s hands.

 

            “Very nice,” she grinned. “Heavy cardstock…Calligraphy…Sounds like a good and proper soiree.”

 

            “So you attend the Viscount's event… and then what?” Aveline asked.

 

            “I’ll approach the Viscount directly and suggest that if he wants to find out who exactly has been interested in cutting deals with the Qunari to obtain gaatlok, then he’d better grant us a proper audience. My contacts tell me he has exhibited an out-of-the-ordinary interest in them as of late.”

 

Isabela placed the invitation over the desk.

 

            “Grand plan. Who are you taking with you?”

 

Varric hesitated.

 

            “I…No one! I was just going to slip in and slip out!”

 

Isabela tapped the invitation.

 

            “It says ‘Messere Tethras and _guest,’_ ” she insisted.

 

He exhaled crossly.

 

            “What are you getting at?”

 

            “That it’s not fair that only you should get to enjoy such a pleasant evening gorging on fine wine, champagne, canapés and amouse-bouches…” Isabela teased. “Share your good fortune, Varric!”

 

He raised his eyes to Hawke briefly before facing Isabela.

 

            “Fine, if you want to go so badly, be my guest!” he grumbled.

 

Isabela sighed affectedly.

 

            “Alas, I’m already busy tonight…”

 

            “And I’m on duty, or that would sound very nice,” Aveline concurred.

 

            “I might be able to attend…” Anders looked up as if trying to decide.

 

            “You can’t,” Isabela interrupted curtly.

 

            “I can’t?” he wondered.

 

            “Aren’t you busy at the clinic? Didn’t you have that…thing…with the injured and sick to do?” she stated ominously.

 

He was about to protest when he noted the dead-serious look on the pirate’s face.

 

            “Right!” He snapped his fingers. “I have…that thing…to do.”

 

            “Guess that leaves you,” Isabela chirped to Hawke. “Lucky!” she winked.

 

Hawke’s eyebrows shot up. She looked at them, at a slight loss.

 

            “Me?...Well…I…I’m a big fan of food, especially if it’s free. I don’t mind going…” she babbled, flustered.

 

Varric pursed his lips at the pirate. He offered her a little tart grin, which she promptly reciprocated.

 

            _You’re up to no good. As usual._

 

It was all making him feel a little giddy, though.

 

            “Sounds good,” he nodded graciously at Hawke. “I’ll come get you at your house, then. Be ready at eight.”

 

            “Hm?” Hawke squinted.

 

Varric cleared his throat.

 

            “This is a formal thing. You might want to change out of the blood stained leathers just for tonight…I doubt Bran will let you through the door otherwise,” he teased.

 

            “Do you even own any dresses?” Aveline wondered. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in anything but your trousers and leathers since I’ve known you!”

 

Hawke grimaced. What had she ever needed a dress for? Especially in Kirkwall.

 

            “I don’t think I have anything,” she admitted, dazed.

 

            “Even I have to agree: you can’t go in that,” Anders stated, looking over her worn armor.

 

            “I guess… I can’t…go?” she winced, seized by a mild panic.

 

Varric felt a sting of disappointment. Perhaps she didn’t want to accompany him?

 

Isabela glared.

 

            “Really? Am I hearing this correctly? There’s a blasted dragon blocking the road. You go: 'Where?' There’s a band of rabid renegade Qunari waiting at the top of the hill. You say: 'Let’s have at them!' But now…You are going to allow yourself to be defeated…by a _dress_?” she scolded. “Get off your sorry bum and go procure that dress! Ask your mother, your sister…”

 

Hawke scrambled to her feet.

 

            “Fine! Eight o’clock! I’ll be ready!” she saluted them nervously, finally allowing herself to look at Varric again.

 

An enigmatic grin settled over his lips as he leaned against the wall, arms crossed, contemplating her.

 

            “What?” she challenged him. “I can still come along, right?”

 

Her heart was pounding. A pleasant evening. Good food, good drinks. And Varric. All to herself.

 

            “Of course,” he replied, in a softer tone than he’d intended. “I’m just imagining whether you’re going to pilfer something from the Chantry charity bin now…” he joked.

 

            “That’s _ridiculous_!” she huffed.

 

            “You were contemplating it…Admit it,” he tilted his head, examining her blushing cheeks. She was so endearing when she got flustered like that.

 

            “I should now, just to spite you!” she retorted crabbily. “Show up dressed up as the Divine—big honking hat and everything.”

 

            “I kind of want to see that now!” he provoked, laughing, suddenly in a terrific mood.

* * *

 

 

            Bethany’s expression conveyed everything Hawke needed to know about the dress she was trying on.

 

            “Nope,” she retorted glumly, wresting the sleeves off.

 

            “I’m sorry…I thought we were closer in size,” Bethany lamented, helping her pull the garment down. The dress had been tight in all the wrong places…and adding insult to injury, the décolletage was too big for her.

 

            Leandra looked at the two dresses hanging over a chair as Gamlen sorted through some papers in front of the fire, trying his best to ignore them.

 

            “I’m afraid we have run out of options, Marian. Bethany’s dress was too tight…and my dress was too big…”

 

            “Could we bring it in a bit for her?” Bethany wondered, patting down the plain grey fabric of her mother’s long work dress. “Maybe dress it up a bit with a nice sash?”

 

Leandra sighed, staring at the dress pensively.

 

            “There isn’t enough time to alter it…But I have a shawl to lend you,” she announced.

 

            “A shawl?”

 

            “My woolen one: with the fringes. The one I always wear to go to the market.”

 

Hawke scrunched her nose in disapproval.

 

            “I can’t go to the Viscount’s thing in an oversized dress and a big woolen shawl! You might as well slap a bonnet on my head, give me a basket of flowers and see how many I can sell at the party,” she grumbled.

 

Gamlen grunted with annoyance, peering up from his papers. Hawke was modestly clad in a long white undershirt and thick wool stockings, but she knew her uncle was not comfortable with her in such a state of undress in the middle of their living room.

 

            “This is inappropriate,” he complained.

 

            “I know!” Hawke concurred. “Perhaps you should move to a different room.”

 

            “I can’t read in the other room—there isn’t enough light,” he explained in a strained tone.

 

            “We can hardly see in the other rooms either,” Leandra silenced him. “Show a little patience.”

 

            “What is this all about, anyway?” he finally asked.

 

            “We are trying to choose a dress: Marian is attending an event hosted by the Viscount,” Leandra stated proudly. “Perhaps she’ll manage to speak to him about what befell the family estate.”

 

Gamlen visibly bristled at Leandra’s jab. He put his papers down.

 

            “How did you manage that?” he asked Hawke.

 

            “I have contacts,” she grinned.

 

            “Oh, you mean you will be breaking and entering?” he asked snidely.

 

            “She will be accompanying Varric,” Leandra declared, helping Hawke step into the work dress again. “And she’ll be walking in through the front entrance as a proper guest. Remember what that was like?” she snapped at her brother.

 

Bethany and Hawke exchanged wary looks. It took very little to spark an argument between the two embittered siblings.

 

            “Is that the dwarf?” he wondered.

 

            “That dwarf is my _friend_. I heartily recommend you refer to him by name,” Hawke warned him sharply, the large dress hanging shapelessly over her frame.

 

Woolfsley, her mabari, raised his snout at the edginess in her voice.

 

The three women peered into the narrow rusted mirror propped against the wall.

 

            _It’s hopeless_ , Hawke concluded, finding herself resembling a scarecrow. _This is a monument to frumpiness._

 

            “Bethany, check my coin pouch: see how much money I have left,” she urged her sister, indicating their bedroom.

 

            “You are thinking of buying a new dress?” Leandra puzzled. “Now?”

 

            “Maybe I’ll be able to scrap enough to get something  simple that at least fits —”

 

            “Two silver,” Bethany announced from the other room. “And a couple coppers.”

 

            _Shit_. And she wouldn’t get paid again until the beginning of the week.

 

Bethany walked towards them and extended her hand.

 

            “I managed to scrape up two more from my pouch!” she stated hopefully.

 

Leandra pat her pockets and brought forth a handful of coppers.

 

            Four silvers and a few coppers…Perhaps she would be able to buy herself a nice skirt, at least.

 

Leandra turned to her brother.

 

            “Gamlen…Could you possibly spare…”

 

His expression clouded.

 

            “No,” he snapped. “I don’t have much coin right now.”

 

Hawke eyed the money glinting in her mother’s palm in the gloomy room. It wasn’t much to buy a decent anything, but it would go a long way towards food and other household expenses.

 

            “Mother, it’s all right,” she stated, pulling up the sleeves and smoothing out the dress. “Use the coin for things we need right now.”

 

            “We do have to stock up on a few pantry staples,” Gamlen suggested.

 

            “But what will you wear? You can’t possibly expect to attend the—”

 

            “Right,” Hawke nodded, looking back at the mirror. “This will do. Just…find me a sash,” she muttered, tugging at the large waistline.

 

 _I’m sorry I will cut such a shabby figure next to Varric_ , she thought sadly. _But we can always laugh about it, I suppose. I bet it will be funny, after all. Everyone will find it pretty hilarious: Hawke in ill-fitting hand-me-downs at the Viscount’s soiree._

 

The Hawke in the mirror smirked back at her.

 

_I just wish that for once…_

 

Gamlen stood up abruptly and headed towards the door. Both Leandra and Bethany’s heads turned to watch him pull on his scruffy coat.

 

            “Going out already?” Leandra asked. It was earlier than normal; Gamlen usually didn’t start making his way to his nighty haunts until late in the evening.

 

            “I just remembered I have a personal matter to attend to. I’ll be home by dinner,” he declared, slamming the door behind him.

 

            “Far be it from him to miss dinner,” Bethany grimaced. “Now…let’s see what we can do with your hair,” she proposed.

 

Leandra cracked a grin, running her fingers through the unruly mop.

 

            “You have your father’s head of hair: thick, full, and cowlicks everywhere!”

* * *

 

            The Chantry bell resounded over the rooftops of Lowtown at exactly seven. Hawke counted the ominous tolls before turning a stoic glance at the dress her mother had hung over the door. It had been ironed and a sash and folded shawl were spread out over her bed. Bethany had given up on her hair when she realized any curl she attempted to subject her hair to only went limp again. Her mother went about the tedious task of preparing a dinner over the hearth. The small cauldron had begun to bubble and the odor of spiced broth and stewed meat wafted throughout the humble home. Woolfsley sat expectantly by Leandra's side as she fished out some of the meat they’d tossed into the stew to check on the doneness—they could only afford the most inferior, toughest cuts of meat.

 

            _Eight o’clock is an hour away_ , she thought. _I have plenty of time._

 

Moments later, they heard the key turn in the lock and Gamlen emerged at the doorway, wearing his customary sullen expression.

 

            “Is dinner ready?” he asked glancing over his shoulder as he hung his coat up behind the door.

 

            “Maybe in another ten minutes or so.” Leandra prodded the meat.

 

He nodded and approached them. Hawke noticed a parcel wrapped in burlap in his hands. He stood awkwardly before her before thrusting the parcel at her.

 

            “Here,” he stated curtly.

 

Hawke sat up in her chair, taking the package from him. It was light and soft.

 

            “What’s this?” she asked.

 

            “Open it,” he encouraged her.

 

Hawke’s brow furrowed in confusion.

 

Inside the unfolded wrapping was a dark blue velvet dress.

 

Hawke held it up, speechless, as Leandra and Bethany ran to her side.

 

            “Where did you get this?” Bethany cried, delicately taking each long sleeve and spreading them out before her eyes.

 

            “Gamlen!” Leandra turned to her brother. “What did you do?” she was smiling broadly like Hawke hadn’t seen her mother do in a very long time.

 

Gamlen spoke directly to Hawke, though.

 

            “It’s not yours to keep. It’s a loaner. I called in a favor from… a friend. I figured you were both approximately the same size, close in build.”

 

Leandra took the dress gingerly and carried it off into the bedroom.

 

            “Come, Marian!” she called. “Try it on! It’s lovely!”

 

            “You need to drop it off at The Blooming Rose tomorrow by noon,” Gamlen added in a low voice, so as not to be overheard by Leandra.

 

The edge of Hawke’s lip quirked up into a half grin.

 

He’d borrowed a dress for her from the whorehouse.

 

She didn’t know whether to be touched or terribly amused. Either way, she was grateful.

 

            “Will do. Thank you,” she said earnestly.

 

Gamlen averted his eyes and nodded briskly.

 

            “If you get a chance…put in a good word with the Viscount.” He peered towards the bedroom. “See what you can do to right things.”


	10. Chapter 10

            Varric pulled on his leather gloves as he stepped out of The Hanged Man into the crisp early fall evening. He gave his coat a final firm tug and smoothed one of the sides of his half ponytail. The evening breeze carried a briny odor from the shore and the walkway gleamed with a light film of sea spray as he began to walk towards Hawke’s house along the seawall. He wove past a wave of Fereldan workers heading back to their homes after their long work shifts. It seemed like the same scent emanated from every window along the canal at that hour: a Fereldan concoction of spices to mask the flavor of the tough, chewy meat sold at the local markets.

 

             _Fereldans and their roasted meats…Why, when some of Thedas’ best fish is practically swimming up to their doors?_ he mused.

 

Hawke and Isabela were pretty much the only two with whom he could share a bowl of fisherman’s stew or who would keep him company anytime he got a yen to go fishing off the Wounded Coast's crags and cliffs. He smiled to himself at the memory of Hawke excitedly showing him her arm one time as he took advantage of a peaceful cove after one of their missions to cast a line into the sea: the length of her arm was pinpointed with small sea snails she had plucked off the rocks and placed on herself.

Isabela, when she accompanied him, liked to irritate him deliberately, offering him pointers better suited for an amateur or bragging about how large some previous catches of hers had been.

 

Anytime she placed her indicators widely apart from each other to specify size, he teased her.

 

            “Are we talking about fish… or something else?”

 

            “Does it matter? Neither one gets away!” she’d retort saucily.

 

One afternoon they had even joked about who could spear the most fish with whatever weapons they had, resulting in Isabela stabbing frantically into the water, Hawke ineffectively splashing about with her daggers unsheathed, and himself standing over the edges of a tidal pool aiming Bianca at—  

 

A flash of annoyance crossed his expression.

 

            _Nope. Not now._

 

He’d had to deal with some unpleasant personal business earlier. He hoped he’d made himself very clear, although he knew deep inside that when it came to that particular matter, the door was never closed definitively.

 

He wandered past a few scattered vendors packing away their wares for the evening. He noted one merchant in particular, leaning against a building wall watching people walk by. Varric had a moment of inspiration and grinned.

 

            “Excuse me—How much for that one?” He pointed at his intended item.

 

            “Twenty-five coppers each,” the young man declared, wiping his hands eagerly.

 

            “That’s a little steep, isn’t it?” Varric chided him, reaching for the coins anyway.

 

            “I buy my lot daily from newly arrived Fereldan ships. You won’t find them as fresh unless you go to Hightown—and I guarantee the prices are higher there,” the man defended himself sanguinely.

 

            “Keep the change,” Varric told the man as he was handed his purchase.

* * *

 

 

            Woolfsley burst into a volley of deep barks at the sound of Varric rapping on the door.

 

            _Shit_ … He grit his teeth at the racket, knowing that Gamlen would not be pleased.

 

After a small commotion, the door swung open and he met Gamlen’s dour face.

 

            “Croup’s gotten worse, huh?” he asked loudly.

 

            “It’s bound to kill me,” he retorted grouchily. “Come in,” he extended his arm towards the inside and walked back into another room.

 

            Bethany came bounding out of the bedroom at the sound of their voices.

 

            “Well, don’t you look positively smart!” she gushed, admiring him.

 

            “Don’t I always?” he arched an eyebrow for her benefit.

 

            “And what’s this? Did you _shave_?” She leaned towards him, examining his face.

 

            “Smooth as a baby’s bottom,” he grinned, patting his cheeks.

 

            “I almost didn’t recognize you!” she teased.

 

            “Oh, ha ha. Where’s your sister? Did she lose her nerve?” he wondered, trying to mask his eagerness.

 

            “What’s that?” Bethany pointed at his hand.

 

He twirled his purchase from earlier delicately between his fingers.

 

            “I just thought…”

 

            “May I?” she asked, gingerly taking it from his grasp. “Maker!” she whispered. “I haven’t seen one of these since we’ve left Ferelden!” Her eyes glinted excitedly. “It’s for Marian, yes?”

 

            “Actually, it’s for Gamlen,” he joked.

 

            She cupped it gently between her hands and headed towards the room. She turned to him once more before she disappeared from view. “She’ll be right out!”

* * *

 

 

            “Your father gave me this, many years ago.”

 

Leandra reached around her eldest child’s neck, fastening a gold necklace with an ornate pendant. Hawke recognized the deep violet sheen of the dawnstone dangling around her neck. That gift to their mother and her father’s wedding ring were the only two physical reminders of his they had left.

 

            “Maker, I can’t wear this!” she cried.

 

Her mother appeared stung by the rebuke.

 

           “It’s lovely, but if I have to fight for whatever reason and this gets lost…”

 

Leandra clasped her shoulders, admiring her in the mirror.

 

            “It’ll be fine,” Leandra reassured her. “And it looks fetching on you, with your blue dress…”

 

The dress did fit nicely, she had admit—it was of a forgiving cut, with a simple square neckline and some embroidery.

 

Hawke reached for the necklace and unclasped it, handing it back to her mother.

 

            “I can’t. I’d feel better if I didn’t.”

 

Her mother shrugged resignedly.

 

Hawke preferred that disappointment, though, to any sadness her losing one of her father’s mementos might cause.

 

Maker knew she had already wrought her mother enough grief.

 

Bethany stepped into the room, a mischievous grin on her lips. Her hands were clasped behind her back and Hawke thought her sister looked five years old again, just for a moment.

 

            “Varric brought you something,” she sing-songed.

 

Both Leandra and Hawke stared at her.

 

            “Well, don’t just stand there as if you were daft!” their mother scolded her. “What is it already?”

 

Bethany brought her hand forward: between her thumb and forefinger she held the stem of a purple blood lotus flower.

 

Leandra’s face lit up.

 

            “It’s as if he _knew_ what you’d be wearing! Marian, put it in behind your ear: it’ll look perfect.”

 

            “Not only that, he is wearing a _blue_ tunic,” Bethany informed them, amused. “It’s like the two of you are of the same mind!”

 

            “Actually, of the same mind with Gamlen. I had no say in choosing this dress’ color,” she joked as Leandra placed the flower over her ear. “Maybe he should be giving this to our uncle.”

 

Her sister laughed.

 

            “Funny you should say that!”

 

            “Why?” Hawke grimaced.

 

            “He just made a joke about gifting the flower to Gamlen!”

 

* * *

 

 

            Varric could make out the muffled voices in the bedroom as he waited by the fireplace. He pet Woolfsley behind the ear before inhaling deeply and clasping his hands before him patiently. Gamlen had cast him a few dirty looks in passing, en route to refill his bowl of stew. The stuffiness of the room was beginning to bother him and he was tempted to step outside and wait in the cool night air, just as the bedroom door opened and Hawke stepped out.

 

He blinked slowly before smiling broadly.

 

She looked absolutely lovely.

 

And he’d thought that even before he noticed the dress.

* * *

 

 

 Hawke stood before Varric self-consciously. The dress, the flower, the black shoes her mother had lent her, all felt foreign, like a costume. She took a deep breath and met his eyes.

 

He was smiling at her.

 

            “Well, look at you!”

 

It was then that she noticed his elegant blue shirt with fine golden thread, a deep blue sash fastened around his waist, new leather gloves and freshly polished boots. He’d even fastened his ponytail back with a thin strip of black velvet.

 

            “And look at _you_!” she grinned. “Where did you get that fancy getup? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in anything but red before!” she teased.

 

He puffed his chest out and turned in a circle for her.

 

            “You like it? I went shopping in Bartrand’s wardrobe.”

 

            “I have to say, blue suits you!” she stated approvingly.

 

            “It’s growing on me…But it’s gonna be a bitch trying to get the bloodstains out…” he sighed. “And what about you? That’s a very striking dress! Where did you get that?”

 

            “Chantry bin in Hightown, five-finger discount,” she bragged. He narrowed his eyes at her. She laughed. “I promise you there’s a good story about this dress, though.”

 

She noticed Bethany and her mother standing behind her, fawning.

 

            “Shall we go?” she shifted her eyes to the door meaningfully.

 

She didn’t have to tell him twice.

 

            “Let’s! We have a long way to walk,” he announced.

 

* * *

 

 

As they began making their way towards the massive stone-hewn stairs leading towards Hightown, Hawke pointed at the blood lotus flower behind her ear.

 

            “Thank you, by the way. You didn’t have to do that.”

 

He grinned, keeping his eyes on the ground.

 

            “Thought I’d mark the occasion. It’s rare we ever get to go somewhere that doesn’t involve stabbing, explosions, and bedlam…and I’m just referring to the typical evening at The Hanged Man!” he chuckled.

 

He glanced at her again, admiringly.

 

            “We clean up pretty good, don’t we?” he asked in a softer tone.

 

            “Who knew! Amazing what a face cloth and a little spit can do!” she marveled playfully.

 

            “My lady,” he offered her his arm courteously.

 

She took it, firmly, remembering Isabela’s tantalizing words about his arms: strong and brawny, even beneath the thick coat. It felt terribly nice to walk down the street with him that way.

 

They continued walking at a leisurely pace, his gloved hand covering hers as it perched on his arm. They talked lightheartedly and laughed at nothing at all.

 

It was just as well; neither one was in a rush.


	11. Chapter 11

Varric pulled the invitation from his coat pocket, peering at the crowded line that snaked towards the estate’s entrance. Besides several guards, none other than the Viscount’s seneschal himself guarded the gates, courteously greeting each guest.

 

            “This is a remarkable party already,” Hawke remarked in a hushed tone.

 

Varric glanced at her.

 

            “And why is that?”

 

            “If you have ever wondered whether a jackass could speak, wonder no more: behold!” She nodded towards Bran, who was looking especially smarmy that evening.

 

He grinned.

 

            “Don’t start… At least wait until we’re inside.”

 

At the sight of the duo approaching the gates, Bran’s affected smiles dissolved.

 

            “And what are you two doing here? Trying to slip in to see the Viscount so brazenly?”

 

Varric thrust the invitation at his face.

 

            “We’re guests of The Right Honorable,” he bragged.

 

Bran examined the invitation.

 

            “I really should double check these lists before the invitations are sent… to weed out certain dwarves and Fereldans,” he sighed, handing the invitation back to Varric.

 

            “Wait…I’m confused!” Varric feigned distress. “I’m not Fereldan.”

 

            “And I’m not a dwarf,” Hawke remarked, nonplussed.

 

            “I’m glad we cleared that up! Let’s go,” Varric ushered her past the very unimpressed seneschal.

 

            “Do try to control yourselves,” Bran muttered as they walked by.

 

Hawke flashed him a tart grin.

 

            “We’ll be counting the silverware afterwards,” he provoked.

 

Right at the entrance, a uniformed servant offered them a tray filled with glasses of champagne. Hawke seized one and turned around to face the seneschal again.

 

            “Oh, Bran!” she called out.

 

The man looked towards her with a look of exaggerated fatigue.

 

            “We’re here as _guests_!” she declared excitedly. “HA!” she yelled, lewdly licking her champagne glass.

 

Bran merely looked away disgustedly, shaking his head. She couldn’t resist flipping him off behind his back when he wasn’t looking anymore.

 

            “That’s right, Branny boy, work that doorway. ‘Oh, my lady, don’t tire your precious arms carrying that fur stole—please hang it here, up my ass! There’s _ample_ room!’” she huffed under her breath.

 

Varric burst out laughing, steering her by the elbow towards the ballroom.

 

            “Aaaaand… the evening’s off to a great start…”

 

            “I really _hate_ that guy. He represents everything that’s wrong with nobles in Kirkwall,” she complained.

 

            “You don’t say,” he chuckled, surveying the loud, congested room.

 

            “You don’t have a low setting on Bianca, do you? We could shoot appetizers at him throughout the evening. Let’s take bets seeing who can land the most mini toasts with caviar on his forehead!”

 

The mention of the name Bianca stung him a bit. It wasn’t something he wanted to hear right then. Some of the afternoon’s unpleasantness surfaced once again to needle him. Before he lost himself in his thoughts, though, Hawke surprised him by wrapping her hand around his arm again.

 

            “Sweet Andraste!” she murmured in awe. “We have died and gone to heaven.”

 

He looked ahead at the lavish tables set with elaborate arrangements of food, each one more artistically staged than the other. The Viscount stood in an adjacent salon, engaged in what appeared to be casual conversation with guests. Varric realized the perfect opportunity to slip in and request the meeting he and Hawke had been trying so unsuccessfully to secure via Bran had presented itself. He glanced back at Hawke and met her reverent, childlike fascination for the banquet set before them.

 

            “Come on!” he encouraged her, deciding then that business with the Viscount would have to wait. “Let’s just skip the cheese and head straight for the good stuff: there is Orlesian _foie gras_ and—”

 

            “Skip the—? What? Did you forget I’m Fereldan and wars have been started over less belligerent words?” she explained indignantly, letting him escort her towards the banquet.

 

* * *

 

            “Do you think Marlowe’s got what it takes to rule Kirkwall?” Hawke wondered, leaning against the balcony wall as she enjoyed her third flute of Royan champagne.

 

            “Is he even ruling Kirkwall? I hadn’t noticed!” Varric quipped, casting the Viscount a scornful glance past the open terrace doors before turning his attention back to the view of the bay below. “If you ask me, his predecessor was a much better leader than this sitting duck.”

 

            “So what happened to the other guy?”

 

            “He actually tried to rule… Can you imagine? Too many chefs in one kitchen,” he concluded, gazing at the sprawling sea. In the distance the fading lights of boats glimmered into the night as they sailed towards the open waters. He searched among the hundreds of pinpoints of light in the city below in an attempt to locate The Hanged Man.

 

            “What did he do?” Hawke’s brow furrowed.

 

            “He went up against enemies he could not take on: blocked the passage to the Waking Sea, demanded higher tariffs from Orlesian ships. When they wouldn’t pay, the Divine got involved and had the local Templars ruffle his feathers a bit…He tried to ruffle theirs back and attempted to show them the door. Things escalated, as they tend to do, he was imprisoned…Eventually assassinated…and that’s how we’ve ended up with the delightful Knight-Commander. Marlowe here is pretty much the Order’s puppet.”

 

His eyes remained distant.

 

            “Speaking of diarrhea in a teacup, where is our girl Meredith?” Hawke wondered, turning around to face the stunning view as well. “I don’t see any Templards here tonight!”

 

            “And you won’t,” Varric noted, glancing over his shoulder for a moment. “The Viscount is trying to curry favor among Kirkwall’s nobility in an attempt to expand his sphere of lack of influence. This is a nobles-only affair.”

 

Hawke balked.

 

            “So…how come Bartrand got invited?”

 

Varric remained quiet.

 

            “Varric!” Hawke cried out. “Just how fancy-pansy _is_ your family?”

 

He shrugged.

 

            “Not _is_ : _was_.”

 

            “No, seriously!” she prodded.

 

He drew in a deep breath.

 

            “Oh, Andraste’s titties! It’s a bigger deal than I thought! Come: what are we talking about here?” she beckoned him excitedly.

 

He pursed his lips fighting back a grin.

 

            “Out with it!” she checked into him playfully.

 

            “There were a few…” he hesitated, knowing fully well the impact of the impending revelation, “…kings,” he admitted.

 

            “Shit!” she whispered in awe. “Like…kings of Orzammar? REAL kings doing kingley things and all? Like, you’d read about them in history books?” she began giddily.

 

 _Maker_ , he snorted.

 

            “Yeah… but that doesn’t mean much here. Apparently, it didn’t mean much in Orzammar, either,” he added, a twinge of bitterness emerging.

 

He raised his flute to his lips, but before he could sip from it, Hawke clinked her glass against his.

 

            “A toast,” she suggested.

 

Varric raised his glass, waiting for her to proceed.

 

           “Fuck Orzammar,” she declared solemnly.

 

He nodded approvingly, smirking.

 

She tossed back the remaining champagne and set the flute down on the parapet.

 

            “Anyway, I still think it’s impressive.”

 

He shrugged.

 

            “It’s interesting, but pretty useless. Not like I did anything personally to deserve any of the respect some people attribute to such titles.”

 

It had only caused him trouble. He recalled a time when his refusal to honor rank cost him dearly among those who did.

 

            “Well, your royaltude,” she stated solemnly, curtseying before him, “I humbly pledge fealty.”

 

He snorted and looked away, the whole scene suddenly uncomfortable.

 

            “Please stop,” he retorted in a tone far more strained than intended.

 

Hawke did not fail to notice.

 

            “You aren’t grasping the irony—” She remained positioned in her low curtsey. “I’m pledging fealty in a gown borrowed from The Blooming Rose, you see…” she added slyly.

 

That was bound to rile his curiosity, she knew.

 

He turned to her in surprise.  

 

            “Now _this_ I need to hear!”

 

She grinned smugly.

 

            “So… I was at The Blooming Rose earlier, enjoying my usual afternoon tryst with Jethann—who simply _adores_ me and lets me spank him for free, by the way— and—”

 

            “You most certainly were not!” he laughed. “This oughtta be good.”

 

He was well aware the elf couldn’t stand her. She had a knack for irritating him and one time Varric had been forced to stop a fight from breaking out between them when Jethann threatened to thrash her for imitating the languid, inflected manner in which he spoke.

 

            “Go on,” he encouraged her, waving over a servant carrying a tray laden with more champagne. “I can’t wait to see where this is going.”

 

            “It’s a _great_ story because you’ll _never_ believe to whom the dress actually belongs…” she teased, taking the stem of her new glass between her fingers.

 

            “Bran,” he guessed.

 

            “Fuck! Ok, ok, you may have guessed the main plot, but you will never guess the big twist…”

 

            “Oh, after that disclosure, knowing you, I am sure the Arishok will be involved somehow…” he grinned.

 

Hawke stomped her foot in irritation.

 

            “Damn you.”

 

He laughed as she tried to bluff through an inane tale before eventually confessing her uncle had borrowed it for her.

 

            “Gamlen? Now that I did not see coming!” he chuckled.

 

She tipped the glass back and took a large gulp.

 

            “When did you say we have the audience with the Viscount?”

 

            “In two days.”

 

            “Think he’s good for it?”

 

            “Seems like it: he alluded to having some business of his own he wants—”

 

He was interrupted by Hawke, who unexpectedly raised her hand and began to gently twirl her finger around his ponytail.

 

            “—us to take a look at,” he resumed, a bit flustered, staring ahead.

 

            “You know what? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you wear your hair down since I’ve known you,” she stated pensively.

 

She began to wend her fingers through his hair gingerly.

 

            “You have a lot of hair,” she remarked.

 

            “It hangs over my face, so I prefer to wear it back,” he replied, blinking slowly, enjoying her touch.

 

            “It’s not fair,” she pouted. “It’s much nicer than mine,” she murmured admiringly.

 

            “I like your hair,” he told her, turning his head slightly.

 

He raised his eyes to hers and she was taken aback by the intensity of his gaze. She delicately brushed her fingertips over his temple, down over his cheek, as if brushing away non-existent strands of loose hair from his face.

 

She paused, uncertain whether or not what she was doing to him was welcome.

 

            “Don’t stop,” he asked her in a low voice. “That feels nice.”

 

She continued the caress, tracing his strong jawline up to his ear, back and forth.

 

            “You shaved,” she noticed, his face smooth and warm against her skin.

 

            “No good?” he wondered, her touch so tantalizing.

 

            “Either is nice,” she offered, almost shyly.

 

He closed his eyes, the initial tenderness that had overwhelmed him moments earlier gradually giving way to a raw yearning—thoughts of pulling her to him, kissing her…tugging that dress off…

 

 _This is dangerous territory. There’s a fine line I’m afraid we’re about to cross if we aren’t careful_ , he warned himself.

 

            “Hawke,” he said abruptly.

 

At the sound of his voice, she withdrew her hand. He was struck with immediate regret.

 

            “What do you say we start heading back to Lowtown?” he suggested. “Seems like the guests are starting to dwindle.”

 

A flash of disappointment crossed her face, weakening his resolve further.

 

            “Yeah…It’s getting late. I’d rather not ruin this dress fighting the usual gang of neighborhood misfits if I can avoid it,” she agreed.

 

* * *

 

 

            Hawke drew the grey shawl around her shoulders snugly as they crossed the festively lit courtyard. A chill settled in the air and thick fog rolled into the city from the shore. Bran had resumed his post at the door and was bidding departing guests a good night. At the sight of them, his expression clouded.

 

            “Great shindig, Bran,” Hawke stated coolly, depositing a crumpled up napkin and half-eaten crostini in his hand.

 

Bran grimaced, plunking the items down onto a nearby tray and wiping his hands discreetly over the side of his trousers.

 

            “See you in a couple days!” Varric waved cheerfully.

 

            “Yes: Varric here was able to secure an audience with the Viscount! If you ever need help scheduling one, let us know! In less than ten minutes he was able to do what you weren’t able to do over several _months_!” Hawke taunted.

 

The two snickered, complicit, as they emerged onto the street. They mocked Bran some more, cackled a few times at the seneschal’s crestfallen expression as they’d departed, and then settled into casual conversation as they took on their descent towards Lowtown.

 

* * *

 

At one point towards the end, Hawke stopped and stepped out of her borrowed black shoes.

 

            “Maker, my feet are killing me! This isn’t footwear; this is torture!” she groaned, wiggling her aching toes. “I’d go barefoot if I could be assured I wouldn’t contract the plague or something as nasty.”

 

Varric looked down at her feet and then peered out at the quiet streets below. One more set of stairs and they would be at the edge of Lowtown. From there, The Hanged Man was a few blocks up the street. So many nights before he had issued the invitation without a greater thought…but that night was pointedly different.

 

He hadn’t felt…how?— Excited? In a haze? –in a very long time, he acknowledged, watching Hawke grudgingly slip on her constricting shoes as she cursed softly under her breath.

 

            “Do you want to just come back home with me?” he asked, hoping he sounded as casual as he always had.

 

She raised her head.

 

            “Yes, please,” she replied immediately. “I don’t think my poor feet will make it much further,” she laughed nervously, staring down.

 

            “All right,” he inhaled decisively.

 

He noticed Hawke had begun limping; he approached her, and taking her hand, propped it firmly on his shoulder.

 

            “Here, put some weight on me,” he suggested.

 

She leaned into him and he slipped his arm around her waist to offer her more support. At least, that’s how he justified the maneuver to himself.

 

His hand rested just over her hip. In her blue velvet dress, without her armor, she seemed slighter to him—thankfully no longer as scrawny as she’d been when he’d first met her. Her grip on his shoulder tightened as they walked.

 

            “I’m never wearing heels again in my life,” she mumbled.

 

            “Well, perhaps not borrowed ones in the wrong size,” he remarked. “Especially when you know you have to climb all the stairs to Hightown…”

 

            “It was worth it,” she stated defiantly even as she winced from the pain. “We stuck it to Bran, we got our audience without any problems, and we stuffed our faces with the finest food and beverages…Did I mention we stuck it to Bran? It was the best evening! No—glorious, even!” she cheered.

 

 _And it isn’t over yet_ , he surprised himself thinking.


	12. Chapter 12

            “Those Vints are freaky bastards, but I have to say I appreciate their obsession with functional plumbing!” Hawke quipped cheerfully as she sat on the edge of Varric’s tub soaking her sore feet.

 

The door remained partially open and she could hear him in the other room, pacing about as he went through his nighttime routine.

 

            “Who knew that was all it took to make you a Tevinter apologist!” he called out.

 

            “They have to be good for something,” she concluded, holding her bunched up skirt in a wad over her lap. The water soothed her aching feet.

 

            The truth was, she hadn’t wanted to go home that night. Not after he encouraged her to caress his face at the party. The memory made her blush: she had stirred something in him…hadn’t she? The champagne was to blame, in part. One moment she had been thinking how nice it would be to stroke his hair, touch his face…and before she knew it, her hand acted as if it had a will of its own. She’d fully expected him to slap her hands away in his usual good-humored manner. She would have never predicted his reaction. The mere memory of him closing his eyes at her touch, his raspy voice asking her not to stop gave her a rush... and plunged her into a most tantalizing game of searching her memory for evidence to confirm that perhaps there had been something more to his words, to his glances, to his actions…That maybe, just _maybe_ , he reciprocated some of the attraction she felt.

 

            He rapped on the door and poked his head into the washroom.

 

            “Here’s a towel—Did you want to borrow the shift again?” he asked.

 

            “Sure.” She grinned amiably, watching him deposit the items next to her. “So, is Hemming going to start charging you for double occupancy?”

 

His blue tunic was unbuttoned and her eyes lingered on the taut muscles over his stomach. He was about to reply when he caught her unabashedly staring at him. They both looked away, somewhat flustered.

 

            “No, but I might start charging you for towel service,” he joked, stepping out again.

 

 _Smooth_ , she mocked herself as she wiggled her toes. _Really slick._

 

She swirled her feet in the tub a few more times, aware of the sounds from the other room: the armoire door being shut, footsteps, and the bed creaking lightly. She let the water out of the tub and patted her toes dry. She tried to reach the buttons on the back of her dress. She contorted a few times in an unsuccessful struggle to reach them. When she tried to slip the dress over her head, it tugged and she gave up, wary of tearing it.

 

            When she finally stepped into the bedroom, she was holding the shift in her hands, still wearing her blue dress. Varric was leaning against his propped up pillows, shirtless, barefoot, but still clad in his formal trousers. He peered up from the novel he’d held up on his stomach.

 

            “I need help,” she grimaced apologetically, approaching his side of the bed.

 

            “It’s about time you recognized it! They say the first step to resolving any problem is recognizing you have a prob—”

 

            “I just walked in heels to Lowtown from Hightown. Have you no respect for the dead?” she grumbled. “Can you just undo these buttons?” she asked, turning her back to him.

 

He shut the book and sat up in bed. For a moment neither one moved. Varric cleared his throat.

 

            “Sit down,” he pat the edge of the mattress next to him.

 

            “You can totally reach the buttons if you stand up!” she scolded him, plopping down beside him.

 

            “I don’t want to stand up,” he explained patiently. “I’m pretty tired myself.”

 

She startled as his fingertips lightly touched her, his touch pleasantly jarring.

 

Her reaction did not go by unnoticed.

 

* * *

 

 

As Varric undid the first button, he realized he wasn’t going to resist any further.

 

He couldn’t.

 

It was asking too much of him. All evening long she had offered him ample evidence of her attraction and he was growing weary of fighting back his impulse to reciprocate.

 

            _It’s a novelty…All her infatuations are fleeting_ , he’d rationalized earlier, in order to keep himself in check.

 

But the moment he began to unbutton the dress, as he gazed upon her fair skin, the strong longing that had dogged him all evening finally overcame him and no dissuading argument his mind conjured was stopping him from giving in to that desire he’d been suppressing.

 

            _Once I cross that line there is no turning back,_ he warned himself.

_But…That there is even a line to be crossed at all says something, doesn’t it?_

_I want her_. _Nothing wrong with that. We’re both adults._

 

He unfastened all the buttons of her bodice, noticing how she remained expectantly still.

 

             “All done.”

 

He contemplated her smooth back and couldn’t help teasing her a bit: he ran his finger slowly down her spine.

 

She turned her head slightly, her breath hitching softly. Rather than amuse him, it only inflamed his lust for her further.

 

            “Anything else?” His let his hand gently glide across the plane of her back.

 

            “Don’t stop,” she said faintly, echoing his words from earlier. “That feels nice.”

 

He leaned closer and grazed his lips over the nape of her neck.

 

            “You look beautiful,” he murmured in her ear.

 

            “It’s…the dress. Never underestimate the seductive powers of a dress from The Blooming Rose,” she stated nervously, closing her eyes and tilting her head so that her cheek brushed over his nose, his lips.

 

            “Beautiful even without the dress.” He kissed her lightly behind the ear, but when he began to trail kisses down her neck, she raised her shoulder skittishly.

 

He blinked in surprise.

 

“Maker, don’t tell me you’re ticklish…” he chuckled, resting his forehead against her shoulder.

 

            “Terribly, I'm afraid…” Hawke apologized, smiling sheepishly. “But,” she quickly amended, “You were saying something about me? Without this dress?’ she encouraged him cheekily.

 

            “Right!...” he resumed. “This dress has served its purpose.”

 

He slipped it off her shoulders slowly, kissing her newly bared skin, tugging the sleeves down carefully until the bodice lay bunched over her lap. She was not wearing any kind of binding over her breasts, he realized headily. He gripped her by the shoulders and turned her around to face him, her breasts pressing against his chest as he pulled her closer to him. He sought her lips, kissing them delicately at first, but as he found her as eager, her lips so soft and yielding against his, he raised his hands to her face, kissing her with increasing intensity, harder, running his fingers through her hair. She returned his kisses as hungrily, until she abruptly grasped his hand, firmly stilling it. He pulled away from her slightly, searching her eyes.

 

            “Is anything?—”

 

            “Wait,” she whispered. “The flower you gave me: I don’t want it to get crushed.”

He glanced at the flower, a lovely star-shaped burst of purple over her ear. He smiled, charmed, and without another word, reached over to the small carafe on his nightstand, pouring out some water into a cup. He helped her carefully untangle the flower stem from the pins her mother had fastened into her hair.

 

Hawke observed him place it in the cup.

 

            “There,” he announced. “Better?”

 

            “Varric,” she began solemnly. “I don’t think I will ever forget this.”

 

            “Forget what?” he asked, settling against the pillows and tugging her down beside him on the bed.

 

            “What you just did.”

 

He puzzled, tilting his head questioningly.

 

            “You just de-flowered me,” she stated, feigning innocence.

 

He was stuck between wanting to laugh and rapping her on the head.

 

            “That,” he laughed at last, “was veritably _terrible_ ,” he decided. “Now…where were we?” he asked, sidling up to her.

 

            “Wait!” she interjected.

 

            “What now?” he asked patiently.

           

            “There is something I’ve always wanted to do,” she began.

 

For a moment he wondered if she was uncomfortable, if she was trying to extricate herself from the situation. He contemplated her lying next to him, partially naked, and wondered why she wouldn’t stop talking.

 

            “May I?” she asked, raising a hand tentatively towards his chest.

 

He nodded his head resignedly. She was grinning mischievously at first, when she placed her hand over him, fingers raking over the coarse hair, but he noticed her grin gradually fade. Her expression grew more serious and she drew a deep breath.

 

He placed his hand over hers, holding it firmly against his chest.

 

            “What’s the matter?” he asked gently.

 

She stared at the large hand clasping hers so tightly.

 

            “This…it’s…I’m a little bit…nervous,” she admitted, exhaling. “That’s all.”

 

He had been so sure she had been as eager as he to see things progress.

 

            “Why?” he asked, genuinely intrigued. “Is this… too much? Are we going too fast?”

 

            “No!” she cried, closing her fist over his chest hair.

 

He winced.

 

            “Easy, killer!”

 

            “I’m sorry!” She unclenched her fist.

 

          “It’ll grow back,” he teased.

 

She stroked him gingerly, trying to collect her thoughts.

 

            “It’s just that…” she hesitated, her eyes downcast.

 

            “That what?” he wondered, placing a finger beneath her chin and raising her face to meet his. “What is it? You can tell me. You know you can tell me anything,” he reassured her.

 

            “This…It’s…You know…” she struggled. She fell silent for a brief moment. “It’s just so… rare… that something wonderful happens to me anymore,” she finally blurted out.

 

His eyes widened in surprise.

 

            “I’m something wonderful?” he murmured, drawing her closer.

 

            “Yes,” she whispered, closing her eyes as his lips sought hers again. “Just…wonderful,” she sighed, even as he tried to kiss her.

 

            “You are something pretty wonderful yourself.” He grinned, tenderly nuzzling her cheek. “But can you please be quiet now so that I can actually ‘happen’ to you?”

 

They both chuckled, but when their lips touched again, they both grew silent. He noticed her hand continued sliding up and down his chest.

 

            “Not fair.” He bit her lower lip lightly. “My turn.”

 

He splayed his hand over her breast and she pushed lightly into his hand, her hardened nipple grazing his fingers. He glanced at her, taking in her hooded hazel eyes, lips parting so alluringly in anticipation of his kisses. There was no end to the enticing things he wanted to do to her, he thought, growing more aroused.

 

            _Let me take care of you_ , he thought, his hands coursing past her hips to help her pull off the cumbersome dress. _Let me take care of you_ , the thought echoed once more. _I know how to make you happy_ , he thought, at once a bit dazed and alarmed by the depth of that urge.

 

He finished pulling the dress down over her legs, finally tossing it aside, onto the ground. As he leaned over the edge of the bed, she deftly whisked off the velvet strip securing his ponytail. His hair tumbled down loosely over his face. He met her eyes and found them full of lusty mischief.

 

            “I have the distinct impression that you have a thing for hair…” His hand traveled up her long, strong legs as he pulled himself up to her again.

 

            “You should wear it down: makes you look mighty fierce, ”she declared, furrowing her brow playfully. He sat over her, pinning her down to the bed between his arms. She ran her hands once more through his sleek hair and he closed his eyes, turning his face to nuzzle her palm as it caressed his cheek. She lifted up sections of his hair on both sides of his head and when he opened his eyes again, found an impish expression on her face.

 

            “What are you doing?” he scolded her.

 

            “Pigtails…not so fierce…but cute,” she decided, contemplating her handiwork.

 

            “Hmm," he pondered. "I can work with ‘cute’,” he concurred, nodding as he straddled her legs.

 

As he began to unlace his trousers, she sat up and eagerly began to help him, impatiently tearing through the laces. He had begun to pull down his trousers when he noticed the covetous look she was giving the hard bulge underneath his small clothes. She hooked her fingers over the sides of her own small clothes.

 

            “Race you,” she challenged.

 

He arched an eyebrow. It had to be the oddest seduction ever, he thought with amusement as he hurried to finish undressing and they flung their underclothes across the room at almost the same time.

 

It felt right, he knew. _So right_.

 

            “I won!” she cheered.

 

He turned to protest her call when he saw her in the lantern’s faint gleam, an orange glow flickering over her naked body.

 

“I don’t know about that. ” He tackled her back down. She rolled towards him, draping her arm over his shoulder, pulling up to him, her bare skin against his. “I don’t see how I could lose in this scenario,” he uttered admiringly. He did not even try to disguise the infatuation in his voice.

 

She was in his arms. Naked. He rested his hand over her waist, his heart pounding as he noticed her breath quicken at their nearness; she was as aroused as he. He dropped his hands over her thighs, barely grazing the soft patch of hair between her legs.

 

            “Kiss me,” he ordered her huskily.

 

            She lowered her head slightly and met his lips, her own hands roving over his body, the need to be closer growing more intense. She swerved her hips against his, and he pushed against her, feeling the welcoming warmth between her legs  unbearably tempting as her slit pressed against the length of his hard erection. There were so many delightful things he had wanted to do with her before that, but he found that coherent thoughts were becoming difficult to sustain as he realized that if he angled his hips just so, he would be inside her. He wanted her right then, to make her his at last—

 

A loud, blunt rap sounded against the door.

 

Both he and Hawke startled but remained still. He glanced over his shoulder. Hawke gripped his arm, looking towards the doorway as well.

 

            “Probably some drunkard bumbling off to his room,” he murmured, when they heard nothing more.

 

            He’d spoken too soon, however: a few more knocks followed, more persistently.

 

            They remained quiet, listening.

 

            The next round of knocks were harder and louder.

 

He dropped his head in frustration.

 

            “Go away,” he growled crossly.

 

            The knocking grew relentless.

 

            “Fuck off!” he finally yelled over his shoulder.

 

            “Varric Tethras, open this door!”

 

Hawke stared at him in alarm. It was a woman’s voice.

 

His expression immediately clouded.

 

            “Shit!” he snapped.

 

            “We have to talk!” the voice demanded, noticeably upset.

 

            “What’s going on?” Hawke whispered as Varric reluctantly let go of her and sat up.

 

He cast her a pained look.

 

            “I’m sorry. It’s Bianca. If I don’t go deal with this right now, she will not leave until she knocks the door down or blows it up,” he grumbled, reaching for his discarded clothes.

 

            She glanced at him in confusion.

 

            “What should I do?”

 

            Bianca’s fist pounded the door.

 

            “Varric!”

 

            “Give me a fucking minute!” he roared.

 

He sat down beside her again.

 

            “Please stay,” he asked, his thumb stroking her cheek.

 

He didn’t know what kind of mood he’d be in once he returned from one of their infamous talks, but he did know that he did not want Hawke to leave. Not like that. He reached down for the sheet and coverlet and pulled them up over her. “I’m sorry,” he whispered again, contritely, leaning forward to give her a parting kiss on the lips. “I’ll try to be back as soon as I can.”

 

* * *

 

            He was furious at having to tear himself away from Hawke. He thought he’d made things very clear to Bianca that afternoon, but not unexpectedly, not getting her way was not sitting with her very well.

 

            _The irony_ , he fumed.

 

He grabbed his crossbow once he pulled his tunic on and laced his trousers.

           

            _Might as well. She can be a bit clueless when it comes to making sure she’s not being tailed,_ he thought bitterly.

 

He opened the door slightly only to meet with a plaintive, tear-stricken look from Bianca.

 

            “Are you sure you weren’t followed?” he asked warily, his eyes shifting up and down the dim hallway as he pulled his hair back up into a ponytail.

 

            “I think so. Hemming let me in and locked up again behind me,” she sniffed. “Can I come in?” she pleaded.

 

            “No,” he stated coldly. “Let’s talk downstairs.”

 

His stern façade cracked only once: when he turned to close the bedroom door.


	13. Chapter 13

            “This couldn’t have waited?” Varric snapped, placing the cup of water on the tavern table in front of Bianca. “It’s late and I thought we had reached an agreement.”

 

            “What agreement?” she protested. “You wouldn’t even listen to what I had to say! You made a statement, stood up, and left! A conversation involves two people, you impossible man!”

 

He rubbed his temples, grimacing. This was going to take a while. He thought of Hawke, lying there alone in his bed waiting for him.

 

_Naked._

 

He sighed glumly.

 

            “It’s because I already know what you are going to say. These conversations never go anywhere!”

 

            “You have no idea of the trouble I went through to manage this detour on my trip just to see you!”

 

            “I did not ask you to do this, did I?” he reminded her.

 

            “I thought I was always welcome,” she argued. She blinked quickly, as perplexed as she was cross. “I thought…Why are you acting this way? You used to look forward to our meeting like this as much as I do. You even said—”

 

            “I _know_ what I said,” he interrupted her dourly, settling on the bench across from her at the table. “Apparently I am not allowed to change my mind,” he sulked.

 

She said nothing and reached instead into the satchel she was carrying with her. She yanked out what appeared to be a folio and tossed it on the table between them. Varric stared impassively.

 

            “What is this?”

 

            “Blueprints. Plans. Projects. The Seed Drill, the Spinning Frame…” she indicated, sweeping her hand over the folio, “My _entire_ career,” she revealed, her voice quavering. “All of it.”

 

Varric’s stomach sank. He had an idea of what she was about to reveal next.

 

            “They flat out rejected it. Wouldn’t even look at it. I don’t think it even made it past the gates of Orzammar,” she lamented.

 

He stared at the dejected folio lying over the table . He’d probably seen many of the plans inside it already. He had always marveled at her genius, her capacity to forge solutions to apparently insurmountable problems. She had a firm grasp of a facet of the world he would never comprehend as profoundly. He admired her for it. He’d never forget the day he’d sauntered into her shop in Kirkwall years before, clutching Gerav’s failed plans for a repeating crossbow. He’d wandered in there out of frustration and desperation. He didn’t know of a smith alive who could produce anything close to what he wanted. He never expected to meet with that intense gaze that hinted at the constant calculating and pondering going on in her head. She’d greeted him that day with a cheek smeared with soot, wiping her hands covered in grease and ash over her smithing apron, seizing the plans with unabashed interest, and distractedly offering him a seat.

 

            “Pff,” she’d chuckled, tossing the plans aside. “This will never work.”

 

He’d shrugged.

 

            “Well: thanks for not wasting my time any further—“ he’d begun, the same token expression offered every sodding smith he’d met until then.

 

            “Don’t thank me yet,” she’d retorted slyly, grabbing a sheet of parchment. “There’s a flaw in that design and the flaw comes from essentially thinking of a crossbow as merely a bow.” She tipped her head to the side, sketching rapidly, her words barely keeping pace with her thoughts. “See, bows and crossbows…that’s kinetic energy…” she mumbled. He sat beside her, staring at the paper that quickly became covered with sketches and formulas. “So basically, force…rate of change of momentum…Approach it by thinking of _collision_ instead…”

 

He’d never forget how she’d raised her head, as if noticing him for the first time. They stared at each other in silence for a few moments before she flashed him that radiant, cocky smile.

 

            “I can do this,” she stated shrewdly. “It’s a fun problem.”

 

            “And since when are problems _fun_?” he teased.

 

            “Every problem has a solution—whether you know it yet or not. The fun is in figuring it out.”

 

            “And you know the solution to this problem?”

 

            “Yes,” she said.

 

            “Just like that?” he squinted at her.

 

            “Well, I know that I know it…Just not this instant,” she decided, pondering the few notes she’d scribbled across the parchment. “I’ll solve it. I usually do.”

 

            “Uh-huh. Right. And by when do you think you’ll have my problem solved? I need it during this lifetime, you see,” he provoked, pointing at the sheet.

 

            “Give me three weeks to come up with a prototype,” she decided.

 

He balked.

 

            “That’s…How are you going to pull that off? I’ve asked some pretty impressive people to tackle this—”

 

            “Magic,” she quipped sarcastically.

 

            “Oh! I see! You are one of those _magical_ dwarves! Are you also behind Wintersend morning’s gifts?”

 

            “No, but if I wanted to, I’d definitely figure out a more efficient method to deliver all those gifts,” she retorted. “My kind of magic is right here.” She tapped at her head, winking.

 

            “I see,” he continued, enjoying their little repartee. “Mine is located a little bit lower.” He winked right back at her.

 

She was caught off guard and had laughed in bewilderment.

 

            “A little bold and inappropriate, aren’t you, serrah?”

 

He’d leaned forward, relishing the moment, her eyes alluringly bright and daring.

 

            “What, pray tell, do you think I was referring to?” he feigned indignation. “I was alluding, of course, to my mouth, to my fabled storytelling skills! I cringe to think of what sordid thoughts might have crossed your mind!”

 

           “Mm,” she folded her arms over the table saucily. “Whatever your skills, at the end of the day, I still require payment in actual coin.”

 

           “Name your fee for that prototype. If it doesn’t fall apart,” he shot her a furtive glance, knowing his words would elicit a feisty response from her, “then we’ll negotiate the final price,” he proposed.

 

           “I have a better idea,” she began.

 

          “Oh?” he arched an eyebrow.

 

          “But I can only tell you over some drinks,” she flirted.

 

He’d been so flattered.

 

            “You are right! That _is_ a better idea,” he’d smiled, his infatuation growing stronger every minute.

 

* * *

 

 

Varric glanced at the woman presently sitting across from him. She’d lost some of that lightheartedness. Life since that afternoon had seen to it. A small wrinkle creased the skin between her brows. He wondered if he had contributed to its existence.

 

            “If only I could drum up more support for my bid for Paragon,” she explained. “Do you think you and Bartrand could help put some pressure on the Council to exercise influence on the more amenable Houses in Orzammar? I know House Bemot has pledged to back the motion. House Meino may also throw its support—”

 

A wave of helplessness washed over him. How many times had they engaged in that argument?

 

He remembered Hawke’s toast at the party.

 

            _Fuck Orzammar._

 

He couldn’t help flashing a weak grin, a pang of yearning tugging at him.

 

            _Indeed. Orzammar shut us out, yet it manages to rule our lives as if we still lived deep beneath the earth_.

 

            “I am a better smith than Branka ever was,” she told him sullenly as she gathered the folio in her hands. “Why should I be penalized because my family chose to serve by coming to the surface? Why should we be treated like ascendants? Why isn’t our sacrifice acknowledged?”

 

            “Is that a rhetorical question, or do you actually want an answer?” he asked. “Because you know what my stance is on the matter.”

 

She stared, nodding.

 

            “I know your stance quite well,” she replied quietly.

 

He frowned. That part of the argument, as well, had been rehearsed before many times.

 

            “Your precious stance is why we aren’t—”

 

Varric expression hardened.

 

            “No. You and I aren’t a “We” right now because you prize all this tradition bullshit from Orzammar!”

 

            “That’s not true!” she cried out.

 

He gestured, indicating that she should lower her voice.

 

            “You had your chance, Bianca,” he said somberly. “I was willing to walk away from everything, start anew, fresh, somewhere else. I was willing to spend the rest of my life on the run if it had meant having you by my side.”

 

            “And what kind of life would that have been? You don’t think that would have taken a toll on both of us?” she accused. “Never at peace, never at ease…What about my work? Good forges aren’t exactly portable, you know? Do you really think I wanted to spend the rest of my life in hiding, working as some traveling smith, happy to tinker with mending pots and pans?”

 

            Varric hunched forward, peering into her eyes.

 

            “It’s settled then, isn’t it? You made a choice and, apparently, your peace with it. Yet, that still doesn’t explain why the hell you are here in the middle of the night knocking down my door. How is What’s-His-Face? What would _his_ stance be regarding all of this?”

 

He dropped his hands heavily over the table. He felt guilty as soon as the words had left his lips; Bianca had the ability to bring out a pettier, crueler side of his he wished did not exist at all.

 

            “You don’t even try to understand,” she began, her voice cracking.

 

            “No, no,” he retorted, irritated. “There is nothing to understand! The question is: why do _you_ care! Because the Assembly couldn’t care less about you or House Davri!”

 

Unlike House Tethras, Bianca’s clan had not been exiled to the surface; they had chosen instead to depart to honorably serve Orzammar’s trading needs with surfacers. It was no surprise that they would be kalnas, still devoted to clan, caste, and all that hierarchical crap Orzammar was built upon. House Tethras still held sway among the Dwarven Merchants’ Guild—Bartrand had seen to that, and so had he…in his subtler and behind-the-scenes way—but he made no secret that when it came to Orzammar itself, its traditions, its customs, and ridiculous prejudices, he might as well be an ascendant.

 

            _Fuck Orzammar_ , he heard Hawke repeating in his head, her champagne flute hoisted up before her.

 

He smirked. How long had Bianca known him for? How many years? And she still didn’t get it. Hawke had known him for less time and she understood immediately:

 

            _I, and I alone, define my worth,_ he fumed. _Not some Assembly based on rank instead of merit!_

 

Bianca pressed her lips together seriously.

 

            “Why do I care? Because I am a _dwarf_ ,” she said in a low, hostile tone. “Anywhere I go, I am a dwarf _first_. I don’t go about deluding myself that humans will treat me equally. You want me to discard an integral part of my identity—”

 

            “Oh? When was the last time you were down in good old Orzammar?” he mocked her.

 

            “I wasn’t done speaking,” she hissed. “Like it or not, you are a dwarf: a dwarf first and foremost, whatever that means, from your height to your resistance to lyrium. You turn your back on that and you are no one: a blank sheet of parchment.”

 

He laughed derisively.

 

            “Bad analogy. Where you see nothing, I see possibilities, stories to be told.”

 

            “That’s very charming…and impractical, Varric,” she added, hurt. She glanced about the room. “For instance, your lodgings here—you can disparage Orzammar all you want, but its gold lines your pockets and pays for your rooms, so you can play rebellious younger brother.”

 

            “I’m not playing at anything!”

 

            “Say what you will—it’s easy to dream from the comfort of a soft pillow. You feel better blaming me?” she asked. “Then delude yourself all you want! At least I am honest! I _do_ want approval from the Assembly. I do want to be the first Surface Caste dwarf to become a Paragon. It matters, Varric. Our people, our heritage…and more. Don’t you dare call me unimaginative for wanting to be a Paragon so badly. If I become a Paragon, what else might be possible? What else could I change? Make better for others like us? I don’t agree with the Assembly’s long-held stance on Surface Castes…but I refuse to turn my back on it and leave it at that. I will do something about it,” she argued passionately.

 

He glanced at her, melancholy.

 

_That fire, that ardor._

 

Those were the things he’d loved best about her.

 

            “You, Varric. You were the one who gave up.”

 

            “I would have done anything for you.”

 

            “Except change your stance. Except honor our origins, our identity.”

 

            “As you said yourself, I am who I am, like it or not,” he sneered.

 

            “You say you would have done anything for me…but you made no effort to even appear acceptable to my family. You are kalnas,” she reasoned bitterly. “You weren’t responsible for your family’s exile—if only you had—”

 

            “Had what? he interrupted. “Been a good hypocrite? Gritted my teeth and served the Guild properly? Shunned Surface ways and non-dwarves? Lived a lie inspired on honoring a place that has no use for me?”

 

            His memory flashed to the father he’d never properly met. His mother’s sorrow, her golden rings clicking against the lead crystal of the goblets she drained daily until she died. Some good that unrequited loyalty had done _them_.

 

Bianca glared.

 

            _Good. Seems like we’ve reached an impasse in record time!_

 

To his amazement, her face suddenly crumpled up and she burst into tears. He took a deep breath and remained motionless, a sense of shame niggling at him.

 

            _And just what am I hoping to accomplish here?_

 

            “It’s all a mess. Everything. All I wanted was to be with you,” she began, shakily. “All I wanted was to be by your side…Like with everything that truly matters in my life, things are never under my control. I did not choose to be a Surface dweller. I did not choose these laws, these traditions, these prejudices…But I chose you,” she said sadly. “I loved you then. I love you now,” she said softly.

 

He winced. He’d be lying if he said her words had no effect on him. How could they not? He blinked slowly.

 

            “You _chose_ Bogdan,” he stated. “You _chose_ to conform to this life, even if your aim is to, ultimately, change it once you wield power. You are willing to play by the rules in the meantime. I am not. Never will. I can’t. I live here. Now. I choose to live in the present: among all the humans and elves and qunari and Andraste-knows-what-else.”

 

            “I had no choice!” she insisted. “I did not choose to be hounded by the Carta to Ostheim, did I? I did not choose to be dragged back home and forced into an alliance with House Vasca. I _had_ to! I was _forced_ to.”

 

            “Still a choice,” he uttered, less certain.

 

            “They would have killed you if I didn’t,” she stated.

 

He wasn’t sure as to how true that was. He didn’t want to be.

 

            “Look…for what you want in your life… your plan is working well,” he told her calmly. “Your family’s alliance with House Vasca gives you sufficient power to sway clans in Orzammar, even!” he emphasized. “And—Maker—you are a celebrated smith in Thedas.”

 

            “The most,” she corrected him, rubbing her eye.

 

He snorted lightly.

 

_And the most modest, too._

 

            “Let me ask you something—and…don’t feel like you need to spare my feelings.”

 

She stared expectantly.

 

            “Is Bogdan?...” He exhaled heavily. “Is he…a good husband?” He paused. “No. Let me rephrase that: is he a good _person_?” he wondered in a gentler tone.

 

Bianca appeared like she was going to cry again; instead, she took a gulp of air and shrugged dismissively.

 

            “I suppose…He’s not a bad man,” she reasoned, sniffling. “I don’t…We don’t spend that much time together. But he’s not…” She stopped, gathering her thoughts. “He’s said he hopes to earn my affections someday,” she admitted.

 

Varric couldn’t help bristling a bit at her words. What did it mean that he didn’t like the idea of a mopey, lovelorn Bogdan hovering around her striving to earn the crumbs of her attention? He doubted the poor sod had the wit, the sense of humor, or the imagination to keep up with Bianca. Very few men did. She was one of a kind.

 

            “Then,” he forced himself to proceed, “give him that chance, Bianca. Try to be happy in the life you’ve built. And…let me go,” he added.

 

Her lip quivered.

 

            “I’ve tried,” she began, her hand shooting across the table and gripping his tightly. “So many times. But I _can’t_ ,” she told him. “Despite everything…it’s you, Varric. I love you. All of this is bearable because there is you,” she told him earnestly. “I can endure it all if I can be with you even if it’s only now and then.”

 

He contemplated her, both saddened and moved by her words.

 

“There is only you. Ever. Again and again.” She squeezed his hand. “You are the only one…who understands me. Who knows me, my mind, my heart. Do I ask too much by wanting to  meet with you for a bit when I am able to get away from everything? I don’t mind if you seek pleasure with others—how could I?” she laughed bitterly. “But don’t tell me that everything we had, that haven we built around each other, no longer exists,” she entreated him.

 

He stared at her hand.

 

            “Do you really love me?” he asked.

 

She rose from her seat and settled beside him, tossing her arms around his neck and embracing him tightly.

 

            “Yes. Yes! With all my heart.”

 

He gripped her shoulders and delicately pushed her away from him.

 

            “Then let me go,” he said quietly. “If you truly loved me, you would not make me live like this, languishing between our meetings…always alone.”

 

She examined him cautiously. It was a while before she spoke again.

 

            “I will,” she agreed. “Under one condition,” she continued, tearing up. “I want you to tell me to my face, Varric Tethras, that you no longer love me. That you no longer care about me,” she challenged him.

 

            “That’s not…A part of me is always going to love you, Bianca. A part of me is always going to pine for what could have been,” he admitted. “You are that important to me. But…I can no longer live this way. I want to move on,” he told her in a hushed voice. “I want to feel whole again.”

 

She furrowed her brows defiantly.

 

            “Answer me then. And you know I can tell if you are lying.”

 

He closed his eyes and hung his head in frustration.

* * *

 

 He walked Bianca back to her lodgings—an inn in Hightown, as she was avoiding making her family aware she was in Kirkwall—making sure, as they approached the building, that he stayed back sufficiently so that it appeared she had made her way back alone. He did not need any Carta assassins paying him visits to remind him he was overstepping his bounds.

            Once she disappeared through the entrance, he turned on his heels, hands thrust in his pockets, and began the long trek back to Lowtown, his heart heavy and his mood irritable.

 

Once again he had failed.

 

Why was it so hard? Why couldn’t this chapter of his life simply end? It dragged on despite everything, grotesquely.

 

He felt exhausted thinking about Bianca, Orzammar, and his parents, and whether or not there was a small part of him that wanted the Assembly’s admiration, too. After all, he did conduct trade through the Guild and most of his associates in his network were dwarven. What if Bianca was right? What if he was a hypocrite? What if he had brought all that misery on himself…and on her? Would he be happier if he had become a devoted kalnas? If Bianca’s family had approved of him and given them their blessing? Could he lead that narrow-minded life? His present someone else’s memories? An outsider to the Surface world, shunning everything and prizing movements that had been outdated decades ago in Orzammar? Could he? For her sake? He had been willing to live as an outlaw by her side, but he couldn’t cut it as a 'proper' dwarf. Now who was deluded? Was his arrangement with Bianca really that bad? He had liked it when she professed her love for him. But was it because it validated his own affections…or buffed his pride?

 

            “Shit,” he cursed under his breath, kicking a discarded flask of spirits off the street. It rolled over the cobblestones noisily.

 

He did not even know anymore.

 

Talks with Bianca always knotted his brain like that.

* * *

 

 Morning had barely broken when he entered his room at the Hanged Man. He immediately glanced towards the bed, seeking out Hawke. He breathed a sigh of relief upon making out her sprawled figure beneath the covers, a leg hanging over one of the sides. He noticed with disappointment that she had gotten dressed: she’d put on the infamous sheath. He approached the bed quietly, leaning Bianca against the wall, as usual, and quickly pulled off his boots. He glanced at the flower sitting in his water cup and stared at Hawke’s sleeping face. He slipped beneath the sheets, settling beside her. She stirred groggily upon sensing his presence.

 

            ‘Hey!” she said in a croaky voice. “You’re back already?”

 

A sense of relief overcame him as he realized she had mercifully fallen asleep rather than lain awake fretting over him...or resenting him for what had happened.

 

            “I’m here,” he told her, reaching over and gathering her in his arms. She rested her head on his shoulder, curling up against him.

 

            “Wackiest dream: Woolfsley was talking,” she revealed in the sluggish manner of those not fully awake. “But he wasn't really Woolfsley: he was the Spirit of Precaution visiting my dream from the Fade in disguise.”

 

            “The Spirit of Precaution,” he humored her. “Interesting…”

 

            “Talked about Anders…we shouldn’t trust him…something about blowing shit up all over the place… and then there was a warning about Isabela stealing a…I don’t know…it all sounded like ‘rawr-rawr-rawr’ to me, to be honest… It’s kind of funny watching a dog trying to speak articulately…” she yawned.

 

            She raised her head slightly, her eyes still sleepy.

 

            “Everything ok?” she wondered.

 

He buried his nose in her hair savoring that comforting soapy smell.

 

            “Yeah. Long night, even longer argument… I’ll tell you in the morning.”

 

            “Huh,” she concluded. She contemplated him again. “Did it all sound like ‘rawr-rawr-rawr’ to you, too?”

 

He finally chuckled, a chuckle filled with relief, her silliness a welcome balm.

 

* * *

 

 

            He remained wide awake, stroking her back. She slept soundly and he would have found it soothing if he hadn’t grown so troubled by his exchange with Bianca.

 

            He would have to talk to Hawke, he thought apprehensively. He had to explain himself…and he wasn’t sure where that would leave them afterwards.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Bianca's ambition to become a Paragon (including her quip on Branka), her project names, the House names, and Varric and Bianca's ill-fated escape to Ostheim are all info I gathered from the game, the Wiki, and summaries of "Until We Sleep."


	14. Chapter 14

Hawke awoke to an empty bed. She stretched her arms out over the side of the bed and pointed her toes, immediately wincing as a dull ache radiated across her calves and feet.

_Damned heels. I'd never survive in Orlais._

She'd heard once that it was not unusual even for men to wear high-heeled shoes at court.

_Lots of free time_ , she reflected.

She lumbered into the washroom and changed into the blue dress while avoiding looking at her reflection in the mirror. She would be doing a walk-of-shame procession back to her uncle's shortly, she realized dourly.

_I wonder if Isabela can lend me something…Actually, bad idea,_ she realized, remembering the pirate's bold cleavage and non-existent trousers.

She raked her fingers perfunctorily through her hair and surveyed the room one last time: she had left things fairly tidy. Hawke noticed, with a twinge of sadness, her flower sitting in the cup, its petals' velvety edges beginning to curl in and droop. Just as she stepped into the small parlor outside the bedroom—writing notes scattered over the table along with books left open or upturned —the door creaked.

Varric emerged, a bundle wrapped in cheesecloth in his hand.

"Hey!" He startled, finding her standing by the doorway. "What are you doing? You can't leave so soon!" He placed his bundle on the table.

_Well, that's a relief_ , she thought, stepping back, wrapping her arms around herself. _He isn't avoiding me._

"I didn't know if you were busy," she began apologetically.

"I'm terribly busy," he agreed, nodding gravely. "Busy having breakfast with you." He grinned as he tugged off the cheesecloth. The bundle was revealed to be a freshly baked loaf of brioche. He raised a finger at her as if bidding her to wait and reached in his coat's pocket before pulling out a small jar of preserves. He reached into his other pocket and pulled out a second jar. "Wasn't sure what you'd prefer, so I got both."

He pointed at the kettle sitting on his mantel.

"Tea?"

She hesitated and then nodded. They stared at each other self-consciously.

"Have a seat! Stay a while, won't you?" he teased, passing her and grabbing the kettle.

She took a seat at the table and knit her fingers as she watched him place the kettle on a hook over the fire and go about sweeping his papers into a neat stack. Next he reached into one of his bookshelves and collected a few items: two saucers, some mismatched silverware, and a lone chipped cup. He moved briskly through the room, setting the table and digging through two different containers for some black tea. It was at once familiar and awkward.

She took a deep breath and examined the loaf of fluffy brioche.

"Don't tell me Hemming now bakes!"

"Yeah, right. Breakfast ended about an hour ago. He told me if I wanted anything to eat before lunch, I'd have to cook it myself. Told him I'm better at cracking nuts than eggs." He winked.

_Heh!_ She grinned at him. _Good one._

"Besides, we didn't miss much: it was some unappetizing gruel crap the cheap bastard probably bought as surplus from the Gallows." He shook his head, glancing disapprovingly at the door.

She smeared some bright ruby-red preserve over her slice of brioche with a stray fork. They remained in silence, savoring their food, interrupted only when the kettle began to steam. He rushed to the fireplace and gingerly brought it around to pour a piping hot stream into her cup. She stared as the water in the white porcelain gradually darkened to a turbid brown, the dark dried crinkled leaves slowly unfurling in the brew.

He sat back down across from her and watched her lick the preserve off the fork before stirring her tea.

"I'm sorry—" he started.

"Don't worry about it- let's just leave it be," she offered reassuringly.

"…that I don't have any milk and sugar to offer you," he completed pointedly.

She cringed at herself.

_Very_ _elegantly done! That was as nonchalant as a brick to the forehead._

Their eyes darted away from each other. She focused on her tea, cupping her hands around the cup, daintily raising it to her lips. She blew a few light puffs over the surface, the steam tickling her lip. When she raised her eyes back to him, she found his gaze upon her, an expression she couldn't interpret in his honey-colored eyes.

"Aren't you having any?" she wondered, trying to change the subject they weren't discussing.

"No," he sighed, leaning forward and resting his arms over the table. "I had some earlier. Besides, I only have one cup to my name." He grinned regretfully.

"We can share," she proposed.

As she pushed the cup towards him, his hand shot out to grasp hers.

"Can we talk about last night?" He squeezed her hand.

"Last night? What about last night?" she asked feigning confusion, knowing fully well he wouldn't buy any of it. "Oh, I drank waaaaay too much. I don't remember a thing!" she explained exaggeratedly to him, her hand sweeping cross the air in front of her. "I hope I didn't do anything embarrassing!"

"Well," he began as gamely, but slowly. "You and I…" he took a deep breath. "Let's just say things between us got very…intense… and at a…How shall I put this delicately?... At a _pivotal_ moment, you called me 'Bran.'"

Hawke choked on her tea and began to giggle. Varric did not let go of her hand. He stroked it soothingly with his thumb.

"Can we do this?" he wondered in a quieter tone.

"Do what?" she asked with poorly concealed dread.

"I feel like I owe you an explanation."

Her stomach dropped.

_Here it comes. The speech I don't want to hear._

"Varric: I don't want things to become strained between us," she told him nervously. "I understand—we got swept up in the moment, it happens to me all the time because I'm so irresistible and—"

"Stop. Don't do that," he asked her gently.

She cleared her throat and let go of his hand, pulling away wordlessly.

"Things are already strained," he continued. "And they will only get worse if we don't talk," he pleaded. "So let me do this, all right?"

She nodded, bracing herself.

"First of all, I am sorry. Last night…Last night was not supposed to end that way. I certainly didn't intend it to."

She said nothing, unsure of what he meant. Was he trying to say that they had gone too far? Or that Bianca had been an unwelcome interruption?

"Maker, if I had known, I would have tipped off the Carta myself to make sure she had never left her inn…" he stated dryly.

Hawke looked at him with a flicker of hope.

"So…what happened? Who is Bianca?"

He exhaled audibly, reclining heavily against his chair.

"That's…a long story."

She smiled weakly and pushed the cup farther so that it sat before him.

"And I know no one else better to tell it."

"Ah, shit…" He snorted lightly. "In that case… I wish we had something stronger than tea."

* * *

At first it was odd telling Hawke about Bianca. It sounded like the implausible scenario from some bawdy serial. He told her how they'd met, how they'd quickly gotten involved, and how vehemently her family had been against her seeing him. He did not gloss over the details, but he did not elaborate gratuitously, either. He eventually found himself speaking at ease, gradually feeling unburdened, relieved that she had all the right reactions at all the right times to his words. If he was a good storyteller, she was a gracious listener. He realized, as she listened raptly to his and Bianca's doomed escape to Ostheim, as they shared sips of tea between them, that there was no one else in the world he'd rather unburden himself to.

By the time he'd concluded his story—with the summary of his frustrating conversation the previous night— the Chantry bell had tolled eleven times.

Hawke turned her head distractedly towards the window only to let it rest over her fist again.

"Varric." She paused, gathering a few crumbs off the table and carefully depositing them into the saucer. He braced himself. "Wow," was all she uttered.

"That's _it_?"

"That…How did I not know this about you?"

"Because most good storytellers never launch into a tale not knowing how it should end. Let's just say I am having a little trouble ending that one." He arched an eyebrow at her.

"That was intense," she agreed.

"Anything else?" he prodded.

She leaned back and stretched, evidently contemplating a thought.

"What do you want me to say?"

"I'm not sure," he told her earnestly.

She brushed her fingertip over the tabletop, rubbing an imaginary stain.

"I am not the most uninterested party here, so take this for what it's worth," she began cautiously. Despite himself, despite the fact he was sitting still, his heart began to pound. "I don't think I need to tell you that your relationship with Bianca sounds like it brings you nothing but heartache," she stated cautiously.

He said nothing, but eventually nodded in agreement.

"Tell me again." He blinked at her slowly.

Her brow furrowed in that manner he so loved.

"What? That your affair with Bianca brings you more grief than joy?"

"No—the first part," he asked in a quiet tone. "The part where you said you are not the most uninterested party. Could you elaborate on that further?"

She turned crimson. It was so disarmingly alluring that he was possessed by an urge to whisk her back into the bedroom and continue where they had left off the previous night.

Everything she had just said—and how she had said it—would be something he'd treasure, he realized tenderly. He was grateful she hadn't stooped to hurtling insults upon Bianca—she had skirted around that deftly. The _relationship_ brought him grief, the _circumstances_ …not Bianca. It was a small thing. A detail. But Hawke seemed to realize it, to get it, naturally. He'd had enough of other people trying to talk sense into him, but in ways that belittled him…and Bianca. And Hawke had every right to judge, being so directly affected by that mess—heck, she had a perfect opportunity, too. And yet she hadn't. He appreciated that more than she could imagine.

"So…In light of last night…You know… I'm not exactly neutral," she stumbled clumsily. "But I wouldn't have been anyway!" She recomposed herself. "I'm just telling you what I think—as your friend and…" she faltered, "your… um… _friend_. This just stirs up a lot of hurt for you and it seems to dishearten you more than strengthen or inspire you."

He tilted his head.

"What are you trying to say, Hawke? 'Not exactly neutral.' Explain yourself," he provoked, hungry for all those words hinted at.

She grew flustered, as she tended to do when she was nervous, and she only got nervous when she was afraid of something going amiss, and the things she feared going amiss were rare and few and important to her, he knew. He wondered if she knew the effect her charming reticence was having upon him.

"Look, it's fairly obvious," she tried to be dismissive. "You're my best friend… You know already what I think…" Her gaze softened. "And what you mean to me," she stammered.

"No. I'm sorry. I don't. I need you to tell me, very clearly, so that I don't misunderstand," he demanded, leaning towards her.

_Tell me there is something more._

He had had to endure her waxing poetic about Anders, swearing to move heaven and earth to capture Fenris' interest, flirting brazenly with that damned pretty boy Cullen, and uttering all kinds of lustful proclamations about the blasted Arishok.

_Come on_ , he thought headily. _Tell me about me this time._

She drew a sharp breath.

"Last night was just…" she stopped, struggling to find words.

"Let me save you some breath: last night was not happenstance," he cut in warningly. "You know it. I know it."

Hawke stared at him, wide-eyed and flushed.

"Fine!" she stated firmly. "I…I _like_ you."

Varric stared at her wordlessly for a beat and then laughed.

"What? Are you a Chantry school student?" he teased with affection as she shifted about in her seat.

All those praises about other men had rolled off her tongue so irreverently, so easily. If she was going to be so tongue-tied about him, he was going to take it as a high compliment.

"Fine! Let's go with that," he retorted. "I _like_ you, too," he told her meaningfully, in a softer tone.

She blinked quickly.

"In fact, I like you…very much," he whispered, leaning in closer. He contemplated her hazel eyes, the ruffled hair, the very light freckles sprinkled over her nose. He glanced down at her lips. "I've liked you for a long time," he revealed.

She grinned, her eyes downcast.

"I like you very, _very_ much," she emphasized. "Do you understand?" she added helplessly.

"Mm." His expression suddenly grew serious.

"What's the matter?" she asked uneasily.

He pointed to the corner of her mouth.

"You've got something here…"he gestured. "Let me..." his voice trailed off as he drew closer.

He lightly kissed half her lips.

"Is it gone?" she whispered, eyes shut.

"Let me check again."

She tasted sweet that morning, he thought, kissing her again as her arm slipped around his neck.

"Come," he murmured, his hand stroking her cheek as he glanced towards the bedroom. As he tilted his head to go in for another kiss, he found she had firmly placed her hand between their lips—an unwelcome barrier.

"Varric." Her voice was suddenly steadier.

He sat back, a perplexed expression on his face.

"What's the matter?"

"I… Not like this," she declared.

He was genuinely confused.

"Not like what?"

She sat back again.

"I have to ask: where did you leave things with Bianca?"

He tossed his head back.

"How does she do it?" he groaned in exasperation. "Even when she's not here she manages to ruin things!"

"I'm saying this to you as your friend now, in all sincerity: you need to man up and make a decision."

He said nothing,

"I don't think it's right for us to be here like this while she thinks there is still something between the two of you."

"What does it matter?" he quipped. "She doesn't get a say. She has a _husband_!"

"Two wrongs don't make a right," Hawke insisted.

"But what am I supposed to do?"

"You need to end it properly, Varric."

"There was never anything proper about our relationship." He shrugged.

"I think you know you need to."

Again he said nothing. It was an impossible conundrum, but one he'd juggled reasonably well until then. He knew there was no hope, no future, but felt profound sadness at the prospect of never seeing or talking to Bianca again.

He wished her well, he thought.

_Despite everything_.

He wanted her to be happy again someday. Why was it so difficult to let go so completely? What did it matter if sometimes, in a fit of loneliness, in a streak of nostalgia, he faltered, gave in to temptation? There was no future with her. It was a momentary indulgence and he intended each encounter to be self-contained. It happened less and less as time went on. He had dissuaded himself from hoping for more long ago. Hearing about her plans, her lofty aspirations only widened that chasm.

Looking at Hawke at that moment, though, he began to imagine a life where Bianca didn't have to loom so large. He'd enjoyed a decent number of short-lived affairs, diversions between periods of loneliness, but they had merely been that: pastimes, distractions.

Stand-ins.

_But what if?..._

Hawke was there. She was real.

_And she likes me very, very much,_ he recalled her endearing and awkward confession.

"I have to get this dress to Hightown and before I do, I still need to go home and change," she explained, breaking the silence in the room and rising from the chair at last. She stoically slipped her feet into the offending heels.

"So…" he asked, turning his palms up, expectantly. "You are going to go just like that? Where does that leave us?"

She mulled his words over as she dallied by the door.

"Do you know how I always talked about seducing all these different men?"

_Oh, great_.

"Do I ever."

She raised her chin defiantly.

"It might come as a shock to you, but…It's mostly a lot of talk," she sniffed.

He placed a hand over his chest.

"No!" he declared in mock horror. "You don't say!"

"The truth is…" She crossed her arms, aware that he was goading her on. "The truth is I'm a bit…old fashioned. I know some people can do it, but I can't."

"Do what?"

"This," she gestured, her hand indicating him. "With Bianca, with another person involved."

She grasped the doorknob.

"I can't do it. I'm sorry, Varric. I can't—No, I won't—"

He looked down, suddenly miserable.

"Not with someone I love," she added gently.

His mouth went dry. His pulse quickened.

"I won't share you with anyone else." she said in devastating earnest. "So," she resumed, not without a hint of lightheartedness this time, "you decide what you want to do about Bianca." She looked up at him, grinning faintly. "You know where I live."

The door clicked open and she moved to leave the room.

"Hawke," he called out.

She turned and they faced each other for a brief moment.

"Wait for me," he asked her sincerely.

She offered him another grin, a broad one this time, before slipping out of the room.

* * *

He could hear her heels clicking on the hard floor outside as he hung his head low and stared at his clasped hands resting between his knees.

He rubbed his face exhaustedly.

It was not going to be easy. He'd tried several times and had always caved when Bianca pleaded, cried, or attempted to reason unreasonably with him. It had become a routine of sorts between them. He'd grown accustomed to it, engaging halfheartedly each time in their inconclusive scenes.

_But that was then, this is now_ , he thought, brushing his hand over the surface of the varnished table. _Then there was no Hawke. Now there is._

He laced his fingers behind his head and reclined his chair onto its back legs as he propped his feet up.

Hawke had made herself clear, even in her roundabout manner. He needed to act. She would not have him otherwise. She would not compromise, or allow him to spend himself emotionally. He didn't know what to make of that. That was something new: someone who wished to claim his undivided attention, he realized. He sat in his room for a while, his mind a swirl with thoughts and emotions.

_What am I trying to hold on to?_ He asked himself anytime he found his resolve waning.

_It's a risk_ , he thought. Bianca, in a way, would always be there, always elusive and out of reach. That heartache was familiar. But Hawke? It would be complicated in so many ways. He could hear Bartrand mocking him already for taking his "surfacer" ways too far. For stupidly getting too involved with a 'business associate.'

_More complicated than staying apart?_ He challenged himself. _Well, about that: It's too late. We became involved in each other's lives early on. It's how we are._

"I came for the story, but am staying for the characters," he'd told her once playfully, early on, soon after he'd met her and she had blurted out her meandering tale of an itinerant life filled so many over-the-top twists that not even he would think of conjuring them up in a story.

He startled when he heard the Chantry bell toll again, what sounded like so soon after the previous volley.

_Half the day gone_ , he lamented. _Let's see if I can make something of the last half._

His eyes trailed towards the door and he inhaled deeply.

"Someone I love," she had told him.

_She never said that about any of the others._

He slowly smiled, savoring the memory.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone: Thanks for the kind words and support! All comments, kudos, subscriptions, and bookmarks are so wonderful. THANK YOU! I especially love getting comments from people who tell me they'd never been into this particular ship until reading this fic. YESSSS! Varric is the best: I'm just doing my bit in spreading his awesomeness... ;-)
> 
> So I had planned on writing a story that examines Varric and Hawke's rapport all the way through Inquisition (because...the games do that, right?)...but I want to reassure you that I'm not going to be yanking your chains and making up lame excuses to keep these two apart until the very end. Writing about how a couple ends up together is always fun, but I also love exploring what happens once they are together. I think that's where the true love and romance lies-in how relationships unfold and shift. Varric x Hawke is ON. They just need to sort a few things out first because they're not into playing mind games with each other. I always thought Hawke was a complex, deep character: behind the witty persona is a bruised and insecure person who feels immense guilt. That doesn't heal overnight. Hang in there with me! <3

_Pain_. Hawke groaned. _Never-ending misery._

She examined her feet and vowed that no amount of vanity would ever convince her to foist them into the confines of high heels ever again. Once she had stumbled back into her uncle's home, a little strategic negotiating with Bethany ensured that she wouldn't have to climb the stairs back to Hightown.

"Once you drop off the dress—" Hawke began, sprawled over the floor before the fireplace.

"I am not going," Bethany stated simply, absorbed in a tome on her lap.

"Listen to me: once you drop off the dress, I need you to run a second errand."

"I told you: I am not going," she repeated more resolutely.

"The second errand involves going to Fenris' estate," Hawke stated casually.

To her credit, Bethany tried. She tried oh-so-hard to appear nonchalant.

"Oh?"

"You have to tell him only this: "The winch is wound up: we are on for tonight," she declared seriously, gauging her sister's reaction out of the corner of her eyes.

"Well, if it's for a mission…I suppose I could lend you a hand, then."

 _Bull's-eye!_ Hawke inhaled with satisfaction. It was so damn easy manipulating her kid sister, she thought delightedly. Of course there was no mission: nothing was 'on' for that night. And the bit on the winch…She wished she could be a fly on the wall when Bethany was the recipient of that particularly befuddled glare from Fenris.

"Thank you, Beth," she called sweetly as her sister grabbed the folded dress, stuffed it in her satchel, and made her way to the door. "I'll make it up to you, sweet thing." She shamelessly borrowed Isabela's term of endearment.

"Don't worry about it," she replied, as she shut the door.

Hawke would have cackled if she didn't feel so exhausted. The thought of her sister knocking on Fenris' door in plain noonday and delivering the ridiculously cryptic message to the suspicious elf filled her with mischievous glee for a brief, fleeting moment. Bethany was predictable when it came to Fenris, and by Andraste, she was going to use that to her advantage.

* * *

As delighted as she was at getting out of her errand, she wasn't willing to lounge around waiting for "sweet thing" to barge through the front door accusing her of treachery and much worse: making her look positively ridiculous in front of the man she fancied. Hawke changed into a simple tunic, her most comfortable trousers and boots, and made her way out into Lowtown, with Woolfsley in tow.

The rocky shore edging the city was her refuge. She walked down past the seawall to the shore with Woolfsley, the only other member of her family who seemed to like the beach. A briny odor permeated the air and the breeze whipped through her hair, misty and salty. Overhead the gulls glided peacefully, only disrupting the rhythmic crashing of the waves to offer a high-pitched cry. She wandered over the jagged rocks that dove into the water, slick, dark, and pocked with the broken and sharp remains of barnacle and oyster shells. She sat down and hugged her knees to her chest and peered out towards the restless choppy waves. Debris deposited by the receding tide littered the shore: it consisted of flotsam from the various ships entering and departing the docks at every hour of the day tangled with heaps of dark seaweed and the crunchy carcasses of crabs picked clean by the scavenging birds. Woolfsley surveyed the tideline, meticulously sniffing, coursing up and down the short stretch of shore agitatedly before digging madly and settling over the damp sand. Hawke pursed her lips; everyone would curse her for bringing the wet and malodorous mabari home afterwards.

Perhaps if everyone was busy being properly pissed at her, they wouldn't notice how upset she was, she hoped.

She definitely didn't feel like answering any questions about anything. She was quite sure that her revelation of how she had an audience with the Viscount would trump anything else, anyway.

Hawke went over the evening and morning events again and again, parsing her exchanges with Varric, seeking in her words and action some form of reassurance. At some points she allowed herself to feel righteous.

_I did the proper thing. Absolutely._

At other points, she wanted to roll over the sand clutching her head and kicking her legs in disbelief.

_What was I thinking? I should have let him drag me back into that bedroom._

She teetered back and forth between commending herself for her actions and berating herself on her foolish uprightness.

And at the heart of it all was a terrible worry.

_What if?_

_What if he can't end it?_

_What if he meets with her and decides he doesn't want to end it?_

_What if he decides to stay with her, after all?_

She recalled the warmth in his eyes, the grin lingering over his lips as they spoke.

 _Varric is not a fickle man_ , she calmed herself.

Her hands flew up to her cheeks.

_Which is precisely why he wouldn't just discard Bianca._

Perhaps she should have bedded him. If she had, then he would be more vested in… _No. That's not Varric. It takes more than a physical connection. He values intelligence. Wit. He values someone for character, for willingness to act…make things happen,_ she argued. _All things Bianca has in spades._

"Aaah!" she groaned miserably.

She stared up at the cloudy sky, the infinite grey background absorbing her gaze. Nearby Woolfsley ran, barking and nipping at the sandpipers attempting to flock peacefully along the shore.

_I am going to drive myself crazy._

In the nearby distance the low rumble of thunder echoed. She quickly sat up and clapped her hands, trying to attract Woolfsley's attention.

* * *

As they walked together towards her uncle's house, the first raindrops pelting them lightly, she couldn't help her thoughts:

 _Bianca is not only attractive and charming, she is intelligent and accomplished. What's not to admire?_ _What is my claim to fame?_ she wondered, peering at the dilapidated buildings on her way to Gamlen's. _I'm a refugee who has made a name for herself in the underworld by working for a smuggler._

 _Right_.

 _What a hard decision_ , she mocked herself. _In one corner there's a sodding genius._ _In the other, there's me._

_A loser with nowhere to drop dead._

Hawke had sensed the deep admiration Varric still harbored for Bianca, despite his heartache and resentment.

 _I've had over a year and I still can't get Mother, Beth, and myself out of Lowtown. I can't even put a proper roof over our heads. What the Fade have I been doing?_ she puzzled, the drizzle falling in earnest. _I even promised Father_.

She corrected her course. For a brief moment, she had almost taken the turn to the Hanged Man, purely out of habit. She wove past other people rushing towards shelter and ignored their curses as they bumped into Woolfsley.

 _I'm tired,_ she decided. _I've settled into this lifestyle for far too long. I waste my time just fucking around, drinking, brawling, content with being a lackey. Maybe if I were more accomplished—maybe if I were someone more worthwhile, Varric wouldn't hesitate to pursue something serious with me._

 _It's time for a change_ , she decided determinedly.

* * *

Varric climbed his way down to Lowtown for the third time in less than twenty-four hours. None of the subsequent trips had been as pleasant as the first. He'd been sorely tempted to impose on Fenris and seek refuge from the blasted storm, but he was quite sure he wasn't good company right then. Not even to himself.

After Hawke had left, he'd pulled on his coat and marched back to Hightown determinedly, stopping a few blocks away from Bianca's inn. He detained a street urchin who'd been playing a game of tag with his friends, running about disruptively, away from the view of the Templars and guards.

"Here." He'd thrust a hastily scrawled note in the lad's hand. "Go into that inn and make sure the innkeeper delivers this message to a guest. I'll give you all these coins if you do as I say and report back to me." He opened his hand to reveal a small heap of coins in his hand. The boy's eyes widened excitedly and he nodded his head, taking the note and rushing towards the inn. He was scruffy and barefoot, but he trusted that would make him less conspicuous to any Carta members staking out the area. He waited patiently, leaning against the wall of an estate, until he heard the pattering of feet rush by.

"Hey!" he called out, signaling the boy over.

The boy thrust the note at him contritely.

"You didn't deliver the note?" Varric asked exasperatedly, even as he guessed it probably wasn't the kid's fault.

"The man said I was too late."

Varric's heart sank.

"The guest you were seeking left earlier today."

He'd dreaded as much. He dumped the coins into the lad's hand nevertheless and watched him hurry away, all smiles and parting head nods at him. The note to Bianca, asking her to meet him at a friend's shop nearby, where they would be able to slip away into a room to speak privately, sat in his pocket. Unless he wanted to prod a wasps' nest, he would have to wait until she returned to Kirkwall. There was no way to get correspondence to Bianca without unleashing a chain of inconvenient events.

_And this is what I get for being weak._

He lamented the turn of events as he wandered back to the Hanged Man, puddles of filthy, murky water pooling along the streets. He exhaled deeply, thinking that on that miserable, rainy afternoon, all he wanted was to find Hawke back in his bed, so warm and soft and smiling.

 _And naked_ , he sighed, wistfully remembering her impish expression as she flung her small clothes across the bedroom. _Knowing her, she is not going to take_ —he peered up at the stormy sky aware of the irony in his observation— _a rain check_.

He continued walking, his boots squishing moistly as he brushed his hands over his soaked hair.

 _I could argue that the breakup with Bianca is as good as done_. _I'm a man of my word_. _Many words, in fact!_ _And perhaps I should redouble my efforts to…What?…_ What had she asked him once? Something quaint about courting? _Nah_. _Seduce first, court after. We've always tended to do things a bit backassed, anyway._

He grinned at the thought of pursuing her in such a fashion. She was really guileless about some things. Surely, his word alone would suffice to resolve the issue. And it wouldn't be dishonest or insincere on his part to say such a thing: he had meant everything he'd said to her that morning.

It was pointless to make them both wait for something they both wanted, for what was a sure thing, he reasoned. Why delay it?

He was missing her something terrible just then.

By the time he reached the Hanged Man and entered the tavern, he was greeted with snappy cries from the barmaids.

"We just mopped the floor! You are tracking all this mud in!"

"Lovely to see you too, ladies!" he smiled, dripping over the polished stone floor.

Once in his room, he plucked the letter from his coat pocket and looked despondently upon the blurred ink bleeding into the parchment. He ripped it into little pieces and sprinkled it into the fire.

He knew what he wanted. He knew what he had to do.

* * *

Hawke made it back before the rain began to pour down in earnest. To her relief there was no sign of Bethany yet. Perhaps Fenris had allowed her to wait out the storm in his estate. If that was the case, then Bethany would be quite willing to forgive her little con.

 _Or perhaps she was finally picked up by Templars, caught wandering the streets alone and defenseless because you were too lazy to fulfill your own duty._ Hawke winced.

At least Leandra wasn't home, she thought gratefully. From the other room she could hear the melodic puffs of breath Gamlen took as he snored during his nap. Woolfsley shook vigorously, spattering water all over the entrance floor and walls.

"Damn it, Woolfs!" she grumbled, pushing him towards the fireplace. His wet pelt stank to high heaven. She seized a rag and began dabbing ineffectively at the wet floor. She noticed then that in her haste to enter the house, she had trampled over some parchment that had been slipped beneath her door. Between her boots and Woolfsley's shaking his coat dry, the writing had blurred a bit, but she recognized her name neatly scrawled over the envelope. She took the letter gingerly and sat by the fire, tearing the envelope open.

"Hawke,

I've got a lead for you. A merchant I acquire goods for told me that workers have gone missing from his Bone Pit mining operation. He mentioned that the missing miners were Fereldan, which made me think of you.

If you're interested, go hit up Hubert in the Hightown Market.

Athenril"

Hawke stared beyond the scrawled down words pensively.

 _Hubert. Hubert_. She wracked her memory. Where had she heard that name before? _Hubert…_

She flipped the letter around.

_Mighty nice of Athenril to send me a lead, although I am guessing the only reason she is throwing me a crumb is because the reward won't warrant the effort required to complete the chore._

_Hubert! Yes! Got it: asshole Orlesian who employs Fereldans to work in unsafe conditions in the nearby mines._

A surge of excitement coursed through her.

 _I've got to make this worth my while, somehow_ , she decided. _I can't go on like this._

She knew what she wanted. She knew what she had to do.

* * *

"Nothing to see here boys." Hawke flashed her bare hands at the two Templar patrols that had very conspicuously begun to follow her when she passed the Chantry steps. The men halted, exchanging meaningful glances. "Listen…just go make yourselves useful…say, doing headstands out in the harbor."

"We don't take orders from you."

"No…" Hawke agreed, rubbing her chin. "I suppose you don't. So…since you're on my tail, shall we get to know each other? Get chummy? Name's Hawke. With an "e" at the end: don't forget to add it when you're writing your report on how I lost you two at the Market."

"Name's Boylan," the burlier of the two began.

"Maker, Boylan: shut up!" his companion said with exasperation.

They continued to follow her, a few steps behind, noisy and clunky. Hawke shook her head tiredly. She was pretty sure they were acting on orders given by Knight-Commander Meredipshit. Once they reached the Market on that crisp morning, she surveyed the area, plotted her trajectory, and deftly slipped between the crowd, weaving past booths and stalls, causing no small amount of surprise as she intruded on merchants, her head emerging behind a countertop here and there, interrupting consultations inside tents, and finally disappearing inside an unsupervised cart. She watched with satisfaction as the Templars bumbled about aimlessly, stretching their necks to peer over the crowd, in disbelief. She could already see Cullen casting her a very displeased look at some point.

"Why must you make fools out of my men?" was something he'd often ask.

"Just helping them reach their innate potential," she'd quip with a maddening wink.

Once she was satisfied she was in the clear, she emerged from the cart, brushing her hands over her beat-up armor. She scanned the square once more, resting her gaze over the vendors, seeking a certain face she hoped she would recognize.

She approached the merchant, taking in his ridiculously formal attire as he stood before his stall peddling his wares. His face was weathered by the sun, his eyes mirthless and somewhat vacuous as he perused the crowd.

"Hubert?" Hawke wondered, approaching the man.

"Who wishes to know?" he asked suspiciously.

Maker, he reeked to high heaven of cologne. Hawke cleared her throat, the astringent odor hitting her potently.

"A friend of Athenril's. She said you might need some help at the Bone Pit?"

He narrowed his eyes at her, taking in her skinny, wiry frame, thoroughly unconvinced.

"Are you one of her associates?"

Hawke cast him a dashing grin.

"Perhaps you have heard of me?"

He tilted his head.

"The Shadow of Darktown," she murmured dramatically.

Hubert scrunched his face into a grimace.

"Hmmm…"

"Or perhaps…the Nightmare of Lowtown?" she continued.

He clenched his teeth and shrugged apologetically.

"Nope… _Désolé_ …"

Fucking Fade. All that hard work for nothing. Not even a cool alias.

"What about 'Hawke'? She dropped her arms to her sides peevishly. "The Fereldan refugee?"

His eyes widened with recognition.

"Oh, yes! Of course! 'Awke!" he stated, gobbling up the 'h' in her name as Orlesians tended to do.

She glared at the fragrant merchant and decided right then, as she gazed at his flashy golden bracelets and numerous rings that she hated men in jewelry.

 _Well…Not all men in jewelry._ Varric wore ear cuffs and earrings… and that heavy gold chain around his neck—she couldn't imagine him without it. Actually, she could, when he was deliciously naked and she was running her fingers through his chest hair…

"Gaaah," she muttered gutturally, interrupting Hubert's yammering about lazy Fereldan workers on strike. "Just tell me where this shit show is going down already and spare me the speech on how we lowly Fereldans should be thankful for our Orlesian overlords."

Hubert balked, bewildered at her grumpy reaction.

"I told you: it is at the Bone Pit mine, a few miles up the mountain…"

"My crew and I will check it out," she said firmly. "Can we talk reward now?"

She hated that part. She normally preferred to let Varric handle that bit. Perhaps that was all too rushed on her part. Maybe she just needed to calm down a bit and tell Varric what she was up to and let him negotiate with the man properly.

 _Do you think Bianca needs him to do everything for her, as if she were some incompetent oaf?_ came the sharp thought.

"I will make it worth your while provided you get to the bottom of this," Hubert offered.

"How do you know what my while is worth?"

"Five sovereigns."

"Bullshit! I want twenty," she countered, her heart racing as she thought of the Deep Roads expedition. They were still fifteen sovereigns short. And she needed to compensate anyone she brought along, as well.

Hubert leaned closer to her.

"Listen: everything I have is riding on this blasted mine. I staked my entire fortune on this mine _de merde_. If this venture goes under, I am ruined. Do you understand? I will be nothing. _Nul_. _Fini_." He continued speaking even as his eyes settled over the crowd before them. "I am amenable to more agreeable terms…perhaps even a joint venture… One that could be mutually beneficial." He rubbed his thumb against his forefinger.

Her heart pounded wildly.

 _I can make it happen. I am going to earn the remaining sovereigns we need to go on the Expedition!_ she realized dizzily.

Varric would be amazed. She could see it already: his mouth dropping open, his eyes blinking slowly at her in total stupefaction.

She walked out of the Market in a rush of excitement. How long had they been trying to amass the remaining funds? How long had they been stalled at that figure? And she was going to earn it all in one fell swoop. More than the promise of unfathomable riches buried in the Deep Roads, she grew giddy at the thought that Varric would be in total awe of her business acumen and negotiating savvy.

_And then maybe…Just maybe…He will find me worthy, after all._

* * *

Varric had slept poorly the previous night, jolted from his dreams by a yawning emptiness. He thought for a long time of Bianca and wondered if what made everything between them so intense was the fact they were not supposed to be together. Did he and Bianca ever just spend time doing…nothing? Never. Every minute had to be meaningful because it was supposed to be so precious. They always talked about their plans, their hopes, their dreams. They always made love as if it were the last time. Always the last time. Every single time. Everything was infused with emotion: longing, loss, melancholy, before they had even parted. It was all very passionate and powerful…

So much drama. And fucking unsustainable, at that.

He thought of Hawke, dawdling with him through the market, sitting with him on the seawall. Sometimes they simply remained side by side in comfortable silence. He thought of the evenings where he'd feed her pages of parchment of the stories he'd written and watch her face eagerly for expressions and reactions while she read: a grin, a furrowing of brows, her eyes turning to him excitedly.

"Holy shit! Where's the next page?"

"I haven't finished it yet…You're the first one to read—"

"Oh, fuck you, Tethras!" she'd snap with a pained expression. "Why do you do this to me? Why?" she'd wail. "I don't want to read anything else until you finish this damned story!" she'd complain. "Can you at least give me a little hint of what's coming?"

"Yes," he'd whisper, his heart full and glad. She'd lean closer, over the table, expectantly. Every. Single. Time. "What's coming is…the next chapter."

"Nothing bad better happen to my luvvies in the next installment or Hemming will be peeling your dwarven ass off the wall," she'd warn him crossly.

He loved it. Loved her bluster and candid reactions.

Bianca preferred that he focus on work. On business. On straightening ties with Orzammar.

"It's…You are a wonderful writer, Varric, but keep your day job," she'd tease him. "Not much in the way of making a living with pen and parchment, you know."

Over the course of that year, Hawke had woven herself firmly into the fabric of his everyday existence. She'd become as matter-of-fact and as vital to him as the air he breathed.

Her absence, especially in the wake of her words, made him feel terribly alone. He knew that once morning broke, he would have to go find her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note from Athenril on Hubert and the Bone Pit mission is directly from the game.


	16. Chapter 16

Varric found himself before Gamlen's door that afternoon, waiting contritely as Woolfsley howled and barked in the wake of his knocking. He met with Bethany's welcoming smile once the door swung open.

"Where's your sister?" he asked, once they had exchanged a few pleasantries.

"I thought if anyone knew, it would be you!" She stepped out and pulled the door shut to afford them a modicum of privacy.

"What do you mean?" He leaned against the wall crossing his arms.

"She came back from a meeting in Hightown this morning in a complete dither!" she complained.

Varric squinted at her.

"Meeting? What meeting?" He hadn't been informed of any meetings…nor had he been invited to any.

"You don't know?" Bethany puzzled. "I'm sorry, Varric. I'm not aware of what is going on, either. She's been very…restless. I…We're not really talking right now, you see. She tricked me into running an errand for her yesterday. Do you now what she did? Sent me to drop off…something for her, all the way in Hightown," she began, trying to change the topic quickly. It was sweet that Bethany was trying to hold on to Hawke's secret regarding the provenance of the dress, Varric thought. _Loyal to each other even in adversity_. "And then told me to transmit an important message to Fenris. I made such a nuisance of myself! He had no idea of what I was going on about! She had me reciting some nonsense about winches being wound and he thought I was downright barmy," she fumed.

Varric couldn't even summon a sympathetic chuckle, he felt so low and his mouth so dry.

"Although, let me say one thing: her stupid prank actually worked out for me," she smiled dreamily. "Fenris let me stay for a while when the storm hit yesterday…and we actually talked for a long time…Did you know he was never taught to read? He can recognize names, but he can't read a simple notice," she confided. "I told him I could help him learn to read in Common. I hope he takes me up on my offer."

Varric finally mustered a small grin. _Just what are you offering him?_ He peered into her infatuated expression.

"He most definitely should. Would do him all sorts of good." He winked at her warmly as she blushed slightly.

"Marian took her pack…and her daggers," Bethany continued, mildly flustered. "Said something about not being back for the night and… not to worry."

His head began to pound.

"Did she mention where she was off to? Or with whom?" he asked.

_What are you doing, Hawke? Why am I not in on this? I hate it when you pull this number. I'm going to be a wreck now._

"No…" Bethany stated apologetically. "But…" she began tentatively, as if making an effort to remember. "She may have mentioned something about stopping by Merrill's? She was mumbling…You know how she mutters under her breath."

He reached out and pat Bethany's arm reassuringly.

"Well, I bet whatever she's up to, there'll be a good story to go with it, right? Thanks," he uttered, turning around hastily.

* * *

No one answered the door at Merrill's decrepit little house despite his relentless knocking. A neighbor's head popped out from one of the windows to examine him disapprovingly.

"She's not home, yeah?" an irritated elf snapped.

"Any idea where she may have gone?"

He shrugged.

"Don't make it my business to know other folks' business."

"How about we make it your business?" Varric asked shrewdly, reaching into his coat pocket. He pulled out a silver coin. The elf glanced at it covetously.

"Ah! Well, now… I may be able to recall something…" he began pointedly. Varric fished out a second silver coin. "Yes. It's come to me now: I don't know where she went, but she was not alone," he offered with renewed enthusiasm.

"Lovely: tell me all about it." He dropped the coins into the man's palm.

"She took off with that skinny, foulmouthed shem woman you show up here all the time with," he jutted his chin towards the street.

"Did you happen to catch any mention of where they were going?"

The man shook his head, unable to help. He gazed towards the street.

"They took the path towards Hightown, though," the man added, tossing the silver coins up into the air with satisfaction.

Varric glanced towards the path. Hawke was gathering a party to go off and… do something—that much was clear. If she was headed to Hightown, there were two possibilities for him to explore: Fenris and Aveline.

He rushed off.

* * *

His hunches proved correct. After pounding on the door at Danarius' abandoned estate, no Fenris emerged. A visit to the barracks soon after revealed that the Captain of the Guard had swapped her days off with someone else so she could go handle "a personal matter."

No one knew much else.

 _Merrill. Fenris. Aveline_. Whatever Hawke was plotting, she needed pure strength, brawn…and some powerful, offensive spells.

He went back and forth between his frustration and hurt over not having been consulted on whatever mission she was off on and sheer worry that he had no idea where she was, how to reach her, how to offer aid if they found themselves in need…

 _Well, shit._ He winced and trudged down the steps of the Keep despondently. He wandered through the streets he knew like the back of his hand, noticing, not without some alarm, that the number of Templar patrols had been stepped up. He hadn't liked how the patrols now skirted so close to Fenris' hideaway.

 _I should check in with Aveline and Curly about this new unpleasant development_. None of his contacts had informed him of anything noteworthy requiring such zeal. He wandered into the Market tense and uneasy. He nodded and greeted a few acquaintances and associates as he meandered past the throng of customers.

 _What are you up to, Hawke? What are you thinking?_ he fretted.

* * *

The giant beast heaved its final breath, toppling onto the packed dirt clearing with a thud that shook the ground they stood on.

Hawke circled the agonizing creature, watching as its eyes gradually glassed over, lifeless at last. Once she was certain the dragon had died, she wrapped an arm around her aching torso and dropped tiredly to her knees.

"Damn," she panted. "That was… _hard_!" She looked around, seeking to commiserate. Fenris stood up slowly, dusting his armor off; the dragon had succeeded in whacking him backwards with a flick of its roving tail just moments earlier. Aveline wiped the soot off her face, her handsome shield with the crest of Kirkwall's guard blackened completely. Merrill stood farther back, her hands still splayed wide, the vestiges of a potent ice spell dissipating from her flesh.

"All right everyone: here's the plan. I'm just going to pull my dagger out of that big sucker and then we can all head home. What do you kids say?" she wondered woozily.

"Hawke!" someone yelled.

 _Huh_! How had the sky moved so quickly to position itself right in front of her eyes? Or had she just toppled backwards? She couldn't tell. _Crazy_! The blood gushing from the wound over her stomach eked out in an icky, slimy trickle between her fingers. _Crud. I might need stitches_ , she determined _._

"Hawke!" the panicked cry resonated just as everything went black.

* * *

When Hawke awoke, it took her a few moments to realize that the ceiling above her was the one in Anders' clinic. She turned her head to the side of the cot and startled as she met a pair of concerned honey-colored eyes she knew very well.

"Hey," Varric said softly, sitting up in the chair next to her cot.

She blinked wordlessly a few times.

"Hey," she finally replied.

His hand landed on her head and began to stroke her hair gingerly.

"You've been pretty out of it for the past day. How are you feeling?"

She closed her eyes contentedly, delighted it wasn't just a dream.

"You think I'm out of it? You should see the other guy," she smiled. As she did so, something tugged and stung sharply. "Damn," she complained, trying to feel her jaw under the bandages.

"You feeling any better?" he persisted, the back of his hand caressing the side of her head.

 _Heavenly_.

"Much better now," she sighed.

At her admission, his expression darkened and he brought his face down closer to hers.

"Good! I'm glad to hear it. Because, Andraste help me, woman, that dragon knew no fury like mine right now! What in the Fade were you thinking, sneaking off like that without even letting me know?"

"Whoa, whoa!" Hawke's brow furrowed. "Nurse! I require a tranquilizer over here for my friend!" she cried out.

"I can't believe you—"

They were interrupted by Anders, whose voice contained a warning edge

"I would appreciate a little more decorum, good Serrahs: this is a place of _healing_ and _peace_. I am trying to perform my duties and inspire confidence in my patients." He paused. "Something very hard to accomplish over your squabbling, you two!" he stated impatiently.

"He's referring specifically to you," Hawke informed Varric, nodding gravely.

Varric examined her and thought of the list of ailments Anders had rattled off: bruised cheek, busted lip, dislocated shoulder, mild concussion, abdominal laceration.

And yet, there she was: acting up like the wiseass she was, looking impossibly devilish, picking a fight with him almost the second she awoke.

He couldn't help cracking a smile.

"Yeah, well, this is just one of many different ways you succeed in driving me crazy," he whispered into her ear, planting a soft kiss on her temple.

"Did everyone else make it back all right?" she asked worriedly, gripping his hand as she raised her head slightly.

"Let's see: I'm afraid Aveline's favorite shield is dead. How ever will she match her outfits now?"

She collapsed back into the pillow, relieved.

"Maker," she exhaled. "I didn't expect to find a freaking dragon at the literal end of the tunnel."

"The dragonlings running rampant through the mine didn't tip you off?"

She winced.

"They told you everything already?"

"Everything," he nodded, sitting back and crossing his arms.

"That place is a death trap. We managed to rescue a few Fereldans. Poor saps from Rainesfere. Nice place. Friendly people… what's with all the bad teeth, though?" She exhaled deeply. "Now I have to go find Hubert and give him the good news: Hi there! Saved your mine, but didn't like how you treated my compatriots! We have a problem, you and I, and I think I'm going to be your next biggest headache," she sulked.

Varric put his best Wicked Grace face on.

"Hubert? What Hubert?"

Hawke pursed her lips.

"Hubert, the Prince of Cheap Cologne. I should have sent him into the mine instead: would have smoked out those dragonlings' asses from the mine in seconds flat."

"No, seriously. What Hubert? Does he even have a last name?"

Hawke rolled her eyes up towards the ceiling, tiredly.

"Hubert Something-or-Other- you know…that Orlesian merchant at the Market in Hightown," she suggested vaguely, anticipating the scolding she was about to receive. "Foofy sleeves…" her voice trailed off embarrassedly.

"Hmm…Let's see: you struck a business deal with someone and, one, did not get it down in writing; two, did not clarify the actual terms; three, didn't even bother to learn your associate's last name."

She gulped and remained silent.

"Hubert _Bartiere_ ," Varric emphasized pointedly, reaching into his coat and pulling out what looked like a folded envelope.

Hawke cast him a bewildered look before taking the envelope he was offering her.

"You met him?"

"Yeah…We had a little chat. Introduced myself as your partner…" They locked eyes for a moment and he felt a little flutter in his stomach. "Business associate, that is," he quickly amended. "Aveline helped. Very persuasive. Rattled off all the labor codes he'd violated. You should have seen her. You would have been proud."

Hawke grinned, imagining the intimidating redhead staring down the snooty Orlesian.

"Know what was even more impressive?" he asked, helping her tear open the top of the envelope. "The fact she made half the stuff up," he chuckled. "I thought I was going to faint when she admitted to it."

"Don't tell Isabela about our friend's newly acquired criminal propensities: she pines for her as it is…" Hawke attempted to sit up higher in the bed. A dull pain radiated throughout her body…from everywhere. "Anders!" she growled. "What are you doing? I need some healing to begin, like, now! Everything is hurting!" she scolded as she sank into the pillow propped against the wall.

"Varric, if you wouldn't mind grabbing this flask of elfroot for Hawke, I'd appreciate it," Anders called out, shaking a glass bottle at them. Varric stood up immediately.

"Be right back. Don't go anywhere." He winked.

She waved him off with a dour look; it was highly unlikely that she was going to be able to go anywhere for a little while. She teased out the papers stuffed inside the envelope and contemplated them, quickly growing overwhelmed by all the formal legalese on the official looking documents.

 _Huh. I'm a bit confused here. What is all this crap and where are my sovereigns_? she frowned, peering at the first document that dropped open in her hands thanks to the heavy wax seal at the bottom.

 _A deed?_ She turned the sheet back and forth. _50% ownership_. And her name at the bottom. Another sheet fell out: something about how the deed would be properly ratified contingent upon her convincing the mine's laborers to return to work. _I can't deal with this nonsense now_ , she huffed, casting the paper aside.

The second document caught her eye.

It was a promissory note. Signed in her name. Dated. Sealed.

 _No...Wait_. Upon further examination, she understood it was a note payable. The money was ready, waiting for her at any time.

She looked at the amount and her hands began to shake. In the background, Varric and Anders exchanged some good-humored banter.

When Varric returned, flask in one hand and a cup of water in the other, he did not fail to notice the emotion on her face.

"Hawke?" He placed the items on the small table next to the cot.

When she raised her eyes at him, they were filled with tears, but her expression was triumphant. She tried to say something, but found herself unable to utter a word. Instead, she foisted the document at him.

He sat down and quickly browsed over the paper. His eyes widened.

Twenty sovereigns awaited her at the treasury. He peered up from the parchment, amazed.

"Hawke!" He beamed at her, handing her back the parchment. "You just earned your ticket out of Gamlen's!"

But she didn't take it back. She shook her head vehemently.

"No, no," she repeated, her eyes glistening. "Don't you see? We're going on the Expedition," she told him with a crazed grin. "Go tell Bartrand! We're going, Varric! It's really happening! We did it! We did it!" she cheered, grabbing his hand again.

His pulse quickened. He began to feel faint.

He glanced back at the paper and then at her hand clasping his so tightly. He didn't know what to think. It was…surreal. Until that moment, the Expedition was something as elusive as a legend, one of those things never meant to materialize, always realer in the imagination.

"Are you sure?" he asked. "Positively sure you want to do this?" He might as well have been asking himself the same question.

She nodded, a determined expression in her eyes.

"I want to do this! Weren't you the one who told me, 'You've got to spend money to make money'?" She grinned.

It was overwhelming. He wondered if it was normal to feel excited and forlorn at once. The Expedition was the adventure of a lifetime. It was the rare opportunity to explore those old Thaigs. He never really imagined himself actually going. He had contented himself with merely trying for so long. They had to act and move quickly. The window of opportunity—that relative reprieve brought on by the Blight— would not last forever. Eventually, the darkspawn would return to pre-Blight numbers and all those old roads and passages would be deemed off-limits once again.

"You two are terrible. Who will I be freezing into a nice and quiet block of ice first?" Anders threatened, approaching them.

Varric stared at Hawke intently, oblivious to the mage.

"Are you sure?" he asked one last time, trying to fetter out the smallest hesitation in her.

"Yes," she confirmed. "Yes!"

Varric faced Anders.

"Hope you are ready to make good on that offer: we're going to the Deep Roads, Grey Warden."


	17. Chapter 17

Hawke watched Varric sort through the pile of parchments with envious admiration. Since preparations for the expedition had been underway, she marveled at how the Tethras brothers had so quickly set events into motion, making sure no aspect of their expedition remained left to chance. from the moment she had left Anders' clinic, she had seen Varric busily issue orders, summon associates, draft plans. He appeared tireless, as if propelled by an inner, inexhaustible energy.

Over the course of the week, the brothers had overseen everything: logistics, the ordering of provisions and equipment, the hiring of porters and armed muscle, all while shuffling personnel around to ensure their businesses remained in operation during their absence.

"Listen, when you look at the ledger, I don't want you to freak out," Varric explained to her. They were back at the Hanged Man early in the afternoon, sitting around the large table in his quarters. He was terribly efficient, breezily shuffling through various letters and contracts. "Some things are going to look damn odd and there's a reason for that. There's no easy way to categorize a bribe." He pointed at the bottom of a document. "Sign here."

She scribbled her name down unquestioningly, all that bureaucracy a blithering bore to her.

"What's all this for?" she wondered.

Without looking up at her, he continued perusing another document.

"Hm? This goes to Kirkwall's treasury—copy of our agreement."

"Why?" Hawke wondered.

"Because we are business associates and the agreement ratifies the terms we settled upon and makes sure they are enforceable," he told her, still not looking up.

Hawke swallowed hard.

"Why is all this necessary?" she wondered uneasily. "I trust you."

Varric finally raised his eyes at her.

"And I trust you." He contemplated her with a warmth she had missed more and more since they'd been enveloped in the flurry of preparations. "And our word to each other has always been more than good enough. But this involves Bartrand and large sums of money from several Dwarven lending houses that are now most interested in investing in our little trek. This protects us all—our interests, current assets…any future profits," he explained patiently.

"I hate this," she admitted.

"Think of it as making a deal with a demon: you have to be very mindful of how you word things."

"I don't make deals with demons, you know," she reminded him. "I have more of a 'slice and dice' kind of negotiating style with them."

"Oh, that I know!" He chuckled. "I really ought to bring you with me to Guild negotiations. Would definitely liven things up," he stated with amusement. "Look, we just have to get all these formalities out of the way so we can be on the road soon. It's just the nature of doing business."

She exhaled noisily.

"All this bureaucracy is a given; that's something you'll realize soon enough, now that you are a mine owner," he added with a grin. "By the way: tell me how it went with the clerk when you brought in those ownership papers! How many inkwells did you go through?" he teased.

Hawke pressed her lips and shrugged.

"Oh…You know," she said dismissively. She fell silent and weathered his expectant stare.

Varric's eyes narrowed and he laid down his quill.

"Hawke," he called out warningly.

She looked off embarrassedly.

"Shit!" he interjected, pushing his chair back and glaring at her. "You haven't filed the deed and contract yet, have you?"

She said nothing.

"Andraste's blasted knickers! That should've been the first thing you did when you left Anders' clinic!" he scolded her. "If a month goes by from the issue date of that contract, it can be challenged and—"

"I'll do it," Hawke grumbled contritely. "First thing in the morning," she vowed.

"Yes, damn right you are—because I'm going with you!" he decided.

"That won't be necessary," she asserted firmly.

"And while we visit the clerk we might as well see how that inquiry into the Amell estate records is going…" His voice trailed off once he noticed Hawke's face turn crimson.

"Fucking Maferath's balls," he growled. "You didn't start that process either!" he concluded.

She did not know what to say.

"You were supposed to take care of all that paperwork. What have you been doing? Please tell me you haven't spent all your sovereigns yet."

"No!" she cried. "I haven't touched any of it!"

How could she tell him that five sovereigns she had been entrusted with to prepare for the journey on her end was more money than she had ever had to her name? It terrified her. And how could she tell him that the deed to the mine seemed as unreal and immaterial as a dream? The words on the contract were just that: scratches inked on parchment.

"Where is it then?" he questioned, unconvinced.

"All safely hidden away," she guaranteed.

He pinched the bridge of his nose tiredly.

"Where is it?" he insisted.

"Under my mattress," she revealed contritely.

He contemplated her with a bleary-eyed look.

"All the other papers are hidden there as well," she offered in a wisp of a voice.

After a heavy, awkward silence between them, Varric finally spoke up.

"What were you thinking?" he chided her. "It's like you don't want to get the heck out of Gamlen's!"

She furrowed her brow.

"I'm overwhelmed, all right? I don't know where to begin. I keep looking over that deed and I don't understand anything! It's so dense, and so…not to the point…and I keep staring at it and think, 'what if I sign this and there is something wrong? What if I sign it and suddenly I am taking on all this responsibility…What if there is a clause or…I don't know… Something I've missed, like Hubert trying to screw me over, or appointing me as whipping girl should everything go to shit… What if this enterprise sinks me down even further, forever, fucks things up colossally, makes life even worse for my mother and sister…Wouldn't be the first time!" she argued nervously. "And I haven't told my mother about our meeting with Marlowe and his promise to look at the case involving the property transfer for the Amell estate personally because…what if he can't do anything about it? How can I give my mother false hopes? I've already made so many mistakes. I can't do it—not without verifying things for myself, being absolutely sure…and I don't know where to begin!" she lamented, exasperated.

Varric watched her rant, remaining perfectly calm.

"Hawke," he began kindly, "why didn't you tell me before? Why didn't you just ask for help?"

Her cheeks began to sting. She had wanted so badly to show him how competent she was, how clever and resourceful she could be. Instead, she'd bungled everything, made a jumbled mess of things. She was coming across as even more inept than before.

"I…I wanted…"

She was assailed by a strong scorn for herself.

_Bianca would never be in this situation. Imagine her stashing all her schematics under her mattress._

"I didn't want to bother you," she finally told him. "You are busy enough as it is," she acknowledged. "The last thing you need is to coddle your grown-ass business associate who—"

"All right," he interrupted her. "I don't know where this is coming from, because I would never think less of you for asking me to help you in an area you have zero experience with," he explained calmly.

She grew silent, her eyes guiltily fixed to the ground.

"Look, it's not your fault. Stop being so hard on yourself, will you? All your life your family was on the run—if anything, everyone avoided creating a paper trail that could compromise your father and Bethany's freedom. I get it. All this is dense stuff that you've never had to deal with before. You don't learn this overnight, you know. There are people who make a living just deciphering this shit."

He reached over the table for her hand, clasping it tightly in his and squeezing it.

"I'm more upset over the fact you didn't tell me how you were feeling, though."

"Fine. Let me tell you how I feel now: like an idiot."

He laced his fingers between hers and brought her hand up to his lips, placing a kiss over her curled fingers.

"I'll help you sort it out, now quit beating yourself up over it."

The stubble on his cheek prickled her skin as he rested her hand against his cheek. He grinned.

"Now, had you been born a _Tethras_ , you'd have no excuse. None! We deal with this kind of stuff constantly. I suspect Bartrand and I had to sign contracts the moment we popped out of our mother's womb," he joked.

"Had I been born a Tethras, I think your father would have been very suspicious of your mother…" She finally cracked a smile as well, savoring the feel of his lips grazing the back of her hand. "Oh, the irony in the fact I would have been the youngest sibling…" she teased.

"'Little' Marian." He chuckled.

"Marian Tethras," she stated playfully but fell into a flustered silence at the sound of it. She could barely contain her blush, especially as Varric arched an eyebrow at her. She hadn't meant to suggest anything, quickly suppressing the thought that perhaps she had liked the ring of that more than she cared to admit.

"Well, Lady Tethras," he'd begun quietly, grasping her by the arms and pulling her towards him, "your lack of savvy when it comes to legal matters is proof enough that we aren't related by blood." His arm encircled her waist. "Which is a blessed relief, because I've been wanting to do this all day," he whispered, turning her face towards his and kissing her on the lips.

She closed her eyes, welcoming him, reciprocating, a surge of lusty sweetness overcoming her.

 _He is still interested_. _Good_ , she thought, relieved.

"Messere Tethras," she retorted between kisses that grew hungrier, their breaths quickening. "Are you trying to take advantage of me?" she teased.

"I'm sorry," he uttered, feigning concern. "How ungentlemanly of me: if my poor intentions weren't obvious before, please allow me to make them obvious now." He sought her lips again, the arm that had been clasping her waist loosening its grip so it could slip beneath her shirt. She shivered lightly at his touch as his fingers slid up her back, hooking themselves over the tight binding wrapped around her breasts. They kissed more passionately as he tugged at it, gradually maneuvering his hand so it palmed her breast, caressing her nipple so enticingly.

She realized she was going to lose any resolve to resist him as she ran her fingers through his reddish hair as they lost themselves in slow, tantalizing kisses. Her shirt had been unbuttoned completely and he was fondling her breasts. He'd flung down his tunic on the ground by his chair. One of his mischievously roving hands slipped away from her breast to stroke her stomach, gliding over her trousers, brushing between her thighs. The soft caress he began between her legs sent a jolt of desire coursing through her and she knew she had to say something before she gave in.

"Varric," she half whispered as he began to undo the laces on her trousers. "We shouldn't be doing this…Not until—" she argued weakly, not as resolute as she meant to sound. He kissed her neck, drawing her closer.

"I know, I know…But this feels…right, doesn't it?" he whispered.

"Yes…" she sighed, tilting her head back. "And no," she opened her eyes, trying to collect herself.

* * *

He stroked her cheek.

"Are you sure?"

"No," she replied. "I'm not. And that's why we have to stop."

He removed his arm from around her and sat up once more, clearing his throat. She pulled her shirt over her breasts, sheepishly.

"All right. I respect that. I did tell you I would talk to Bianca before we started anything," he admitted. "But," he continued, raising his amber eyes at her, "it's very difficult not to want to reach for you when we're sitting this close."

He tilted his head, contemplating her.

"Hawke, you know how I feel. Talking to Bianca now or later…It won't change much for me. I know what I want," he reassured her. "So what are we waiting for? Why don't we just go for it?" he suggested. "We both want to."

She appeared so miserable, so vulnerable at that moment.

"Maker knows I do," she concurred. "Do I ever." She bit her bottom lip in that guileless, charming manner of hers that awakened all kinds of want in him. "But I can't help but feel…It's like…" she exhaled heavily and rubbed her head with frustrated vigor. "It's like…I'm _cursed_. Everything I do seems to go to shit and maybe it has nothing to do with luck but with timing and careful thinking and proper planning…And I don't know, Varric…What if when you confront Bianca you realize that…I don't know!" she struggled to explain.

He simply peered at her, struggling to understand what that reaction was all about.

"Look at me," she told him. "I'm…a hotheaded Fereldan refugee who still hides her worldly goods under a mattress…I'm a mess. I'm always in over my head. I fight pretty well and I think we both agree I can be kind of funny, especially when we're both drunk, but…" she stopped, blinking at him. "I'm just wondering," she said, "when it is that you will realize you deserve better."

His heart ached at her words.

_What will it take, Hawke? When will it get through to you?_

He said nothing.

"Well?" she asked, after some more silence. His gaze did not steer away from hers.

"I'm sorry," he said very softly. "What did you say? I grew distracted and didn't hear anything else once you said, 'Look at me.'"

She finally flashed him a shy smile.

"I suppose we should get going…Shot of whiskey before we go downstairs?" he asked, walking towards his bookshelf.

"Sure," she replied, buttoning up her shirt. He pulled out two heavy crystal tumblers to her surprise, not his usual chipped cup, and placed one down before her.

"This is fancy," she noted admiringly. "Should shatter really elegantly over the head of the next Carta, bandit, or rogue Templar who tries to ambush you here," she joked.

He poured a jigger of tawny whisky into the glass.

"I'll make sure to shout out 'cheers!' when the time comes." He poured himself the same and sat down beside her again. They clinked their glasses and sipped the strong, astringent liquor. "Hawke," he began more seriously. "I need you to listen to what I am going to tell you now."

She straightened up in her chair, still appearing a bit despondent.

"I don't know what else to say to you to convince you that this isn't a whim, some curiosity I am seeking to satisfy," he explained. "I know you. I know you very well. I knew you before you trusted me with your life in combat, rushing out into a mob armed to its teeth because you came to realize I would be watching your back, an arrow aimed at the first fool who attempted a backhanded maneuver."

He indicated the glasses with a nod. "See these? I went out and bought them the day we talked… about this…about us. Do you know why?"

She stared at the etched lead crystal sparkling in the firelight.

"Because I realized I no longer wanted to be a one-cup kind of guy," he told her, the hint of a smile surfacing on his lips.

"A chipped cup at that," she offered in a low voice.

"Exactly. I thought, I don't want to be alone anymore." He paused. "Let me put it more clearly: I want to be with _you_." He turned toward the bookshelf and her gaze followed. Neatly stacked on a shelf were bowls, cups, and plates. Two of each: white porcelain—a light gold stroke adorning the rims, simple and refined. "Now you have me thinking that I don't want to sit at this table unless you're with me, and I'm always hoping you'll be here. And whenever you are by my side...I want you to feel you are where you belong."

She tried to blink back the tears.

"Think maybe you could have my name painted on mine to make sure no one else uses my stuff?" she teased, her voice wavering slightly.

He blinked at her, surprised, and then tossed his head back laughing.

"You're a pain in the ass!" he snorted.

She ran her thumb over the back of his hand.

"I'm scared, Varric," she confessed. "Things are finally looking up…but I don't want to take any chances…I couldn't…"

He nodded.

"All right," he replied gently. "I understand. If that's what it takes, then that's what it takes. I always want you to tell me what's on your mind, though. And I will admit to you…I am not looking forward to that conversation with Bianca."

He noticed her expression cloud for a brief moment.

"Not for the reason you are thinking, though!" he added quickly. "I did love Bianca once… But I need you to believe me when I say this: what I had with her was…another lifetime ago—it's run its course and all that remains is the tenuous hope of salvaging a friendship…And that only if she respects my limits." He averted his eyes and glanced at the fire, enjoying the pure affection contained in the simple gesture of her hand caressing his.

"You know, for someone so efficient with his paperwork, I'm surprised you didn't write her already," she provoked lightly.

He inhaled deeply, sitting back against his chair and contemplating the sly sideways stare she was giving him with an amused half grin.

"Touché…But it's not that simple. I can't communicate freely with her. Trust me…I've run what I am going to say to her in my head a thousand times since that night. I've toyed with sending her a cyphered message or even calling in some big favors… But if I dash her even the most succinct note, I will trip her web of many watchers with some very inconvenient and unpleasant consequences I'd rather not stir up. Besides, this is something better done in person. It's the proper way to go about it," he decided.

"Any idea when she'll be back in town?" Hawke asked, betraying disappointment as he reached for his discarded tunic.

"None." He shrugged. "We'll probably be back from our expedition once she returns," he informed her. "Sometimes I don't hear from her for _months_ ," he emphasized, hoping that might sway her to check that formidable resolve of hers.

She pondered his words before seeking out his eyes, an expression of curiosity in her face.

"How could you stand it?" she asked sincerely.

He beheld their hands over the table.

"I'd resigned myself to being alone, expecting nothing more than what I had. I was convinced that's how things were meant to be. This impulse for matching cutlery and china is a recent thing, you see," he stated lightheartedly. She smiled broadly at him. "But even I was surprised by how deep this urge is," he added meaningfully.

"Maker," Hawke declared, growing agitated. "Can we just have Isabela kidnap her and bring her back here already? What are you doing to me?" she groaned. "First I couldn't wait for Bianca to get the heck away, now I am praying for her to return as soon as possible…"

"So what now?" he asked earnestly. "I will have that conversation with Bianca—I promise you. But in the meantime…it'll be very, very hard not being able to touch you," he told her."Or hold you close, or kiss you," he added, staring lustily at her lips.

She heaved a sigh.

"If you change your mind…" he suggested.

"I won't!" she stated, as if trying to convince herself rather than him.

"Fine…but don't expect me to help you resist if you falter…" he teased.

She actually quivered slightly at his words.

"This is difficult enough as it is," she complained.

"May I try one more thing to see if I can persuade you?" he asked in a playful manner.

"It won't work," she warned him.

He took her hand and slowly placed it over his chest. She held still for a moment before she allowed her fingers to run over the taut skin and coarse hair. He hoped the heady look in her eyes meant his little ruse had succeeded. Instead, though, she pulled her hand back.

"That was very clever, you devious man," she chided him, feigning indignation.

"Can't blame me for trying." He sat back and raised his glass at her.

"Know this." She gripped her tumbler and poured another splash of whiskey into it. "Once you're truly mine and all mine," she informed him, "that's the first thing I'm going to jump on." She pointed at his bare chest.

They both sipped in silence, exchanging amused grins.

"So tomorrow," he told her, "we'll go to Hightown. First we'll file the deed to the mine—we'll stop by to get Sieg—he checks all the business contracts for Bartrand and me; he'll comb through it and make sure there aren't any unexpected or sneaky contingencies," he stated. "Although, I'm quite sure we have nothing to worry about; it looked pretty standard and straightforward to me when I read through it," he reassured her, feeling a small surge of pride at the way she appeared to grow more at ease at his words.

"Thank you," she said, slipping her hand back in his. "You don't have to do all this. You have no idea how much I appreciate it."

"I am first and foremost your friend," he told her, loving her proximity, her hand in his. "And I am happy to help you—always have been."

She looked down, touched.

"I am your partner in crime second," he continued, "and your business associate falls in there somewhere, as well." He inhaled deeply. "But ultimately, I hope someday to be your love—"

"You already are," she interrupted him gently.

They stared at each other for a moment, a deep understanding passing between them.

"Did you get what I was trying to tell you?" he said at last, overcome by all the tenderness he harbored for her.

"What was that?" she puzzled.

"Yours," he stated softly. "I'm already truly and all yours."

* * *

Varric leaned back against the rickety chair back in Gamlen's house and ran his fingers through his hair. Leandra sat across him, perusing through the pile of parchments laid out on the table.

"Just let Sieg handle this for you. He knows Kirkwall's codex on estate and inheritance law inside out. He said the process to launch the inquiry is simple, but like everything," Varric explained, rubbing his thumb and forefinger together, "it costs coin."

Leandra cast a final glance across the paperwork as if conceding defeat.

"All right. It will have to do," she agreed.

"Don't worry." He winked at her. "Sieg has handled plenty of cases for us before."

"Is he honest?" Leandra asked warily. "Forgive me if I seem ungrateful for your help, but I have chased so many false starts regarding my family's estate…" she apologized.

"If Sieg is honest?" Varric pondered the question. "Probably not." He chuckled at Leandra's surprise. "He wouldn't be successful here in Kirkwall if he were, and that's the truth." Before Leandra could protest, he added, "Not to worry: any scheming and sleight of hand will be in our favor, though."

The woman exhaled, still frazzled over all that was happening so quickly, and nodded in agreement.

He snuck a quick glance over his shoulder and saw Hawke, sitting by the hearth watching him intently.

In her eyes there was a look he never wanted to see fade, he realized, smiles sprouting over both their lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Sorry for the delay in updating this fic. Even though I know what I want to do with the story, I need to play through parts of the game again to jostle my memory and fill in some details...and time really has been scarce lately. BUT! It's coming along and I appreciate everyone's kind words and cheering me on! Thank you!


	18. Chapter 18

Varric wondered if the wisest course of action the night before they set off to Ferelden was a farewell at the Hanged Man. He'd gone through the lists in his head a million times: their contacts along the way, transport, porters, gear, provisions, as well as all the palms to grease once they arrived in Orzammar: coin spent on officials and guards to look the other way. He'd toyed with the idea of spending the night at his old home in Hightown with Bartrand, going over the planned routes down the Deep Roads with him once again, matching them against the many texts they had earmarked for references to the great lost Houses. He couldn't go through with it, though. Bartrand was not irritating him with his usual bragging and repetitive lectures on maximizing profits; instead, he had grown more sullen than usual. Varric wondered if his brother was apprehensive and suddenly cognizant of the sheer enormity of the mission they had undertaken.

He'd grown wary of Bartrand's volatile temper those past days—the tyrannical demands that purchase orders and supplies be verified, checked and rechecked may have assuaged his brother that all was progressing as expected, but it exhausted him and irked him. He'd hightailed it out of Hightown before noon, hatching a more amenable plan that actually appealed to him.

"A farewell dinner," he'd announced, stopping by Hawke's house.

"You know, we already do that almost every night," Hawke joked.

"Then we'll be well rehearsed for it," he retorted.

"Will there be long-winded farewell speeches?" Hawke wondered.

"But of course! Especially after many drinks. Perhaps even by those who will stay behind."

"Will expedition members be allowed to hobble in late for departure the next morning?" she provoked.

"Absolutely not! What kind of outfit do you think I'm running here? No hobbling permitted."

"I'm a little nervous," she confessed.

"About what? Just don't be _too_ late—the captain of the ship we chartered is a bit of a prick."

She smirked.

"Besides," he quickly continued, "you can always spend the night with me. I'll make sure you're up in the morning," he offered suggestively.

"Yes, I can see you shaking out the sheets, rolling me out of bed onto the floor." She chuckled.

"That only happened one time," he protested. "Besides, I was thinking of more pleasant ways for us to start the day…" He crossed his arms and contemplated her headily, a sly grin emerging on his lips.

Hawke blushed.

"Tethras, it's going to be a very long trip if you're going to be pulling that little act throughout it."

He shrugged.

"I was thinking of a good, strong mug of tea. What in the Fade were _you_ imagining, pray tell?" he asked, feigning wide-eyed innocence.

She stared at him, crossing her arms as well.

"A tartlet mashed on your forehead, you bastard," she grumbled.

He laughed.

"I'll see you later, then." He winked and began to head towards the door.

"Is it hot in here? How am I supposed to go shopping for a winter cloak now?" she complained.

It amused him terribly. He was going to propose helping her out of her clothes to cool off, but he was quite sure there would be some heavy object aimed at his head if he proposed such a thing.

"Make sure you get a proper cloak. You have the coin for it now—don't show up with some sacks of burlap stitched together," he warned her.

"You really think I'm that uncouth." She shook her head.

"No, I'm just guessing you're going to go buy it at Hislop's."

At her staid, expressionless glance—evidence of how crappy she was at bluffing, if his experience playing Wicked Grace with her was serving him well—he halted. The Fereldan merchant was infamous for inexpensive prices and truly third-rate merchandise from the northern Marches that rarely survived more than a season or a few rounds of laundering. Other than her well-cured leathers, he suspected everything else she purchased was from the man's 'liquidation' racks.

"Andraste help you if you waste your coin at Hislop's, Hawke. I'm not kidding here. The Frostbacks are freezing; this time of the year it's even more brutal. Get something decent."

"Fine. I'll stop by the market in Hightown when I meet up with Bethany in a bit."

"What's Bethany doing up in Hightown?"

Hawke grinned cheekily.

"Doing her good deed of the day and teaching Fenris how to read and write." She hurried over to a table by the entrance and picked up a weathered tome. "Except she forgot her reader! I can't wait to hear the bullshit she comes up with before I bust her!"

He couldn't help grinning.

"Good for her. At least one sister has common sense and isn't holding back."

Hawke appeared a bit crestfallen.

"That's a low blow."

"Make sure she has something warm as well," he reminded her.

"Hmmm. Let's see…I'm sure Hislop's has some dazzling two-for-one sale…"

"Hawke!" he warned, opening the door.

She was grinning back at him impishly.

* * *

Hawke did not feel at ease wandering through Hightown. For once she had the silver to spend, but everything looked prohibitively expensive, unnecessarily grand.

_Too good for me._

She paced about the small square she'd agreed to meet up with Bethany at and thought about how years of living on the run led to her developing such frugal habits and how that last devastating year of hardship had affected her. She mistrusted the coin in her pockets, felt uneasy spending even one silver and compared the prices of different luxurious wares to all the food she could purchase or bills she could pay instead.

 _This has become a way of thinking, a way of being_ , she thought. _I need to change._

It wasn't long before Bethany showed up, moving towards her with a giddy expression. Hawke examined her sister suspiciously.

"So how did it go?"

"How what went?"

"Your lesson. With, you know, _Fenris_."

"It went fine," Bethany stated airily, taking her arm and tugging her towards the many assembled stalls in the bustling market.

"Really?" Hawke feigned surprise. "Was it a good lesson? Like, productive?"

Bethany would not stop grinning.

"Oh, yes!"

"Get much reading done?"

"Hm?"

"I was just curious because you left your big old reader back at the house," Hawke declared pointedly.

"Best mistake I ever made," Bethany sighed.

"Oh, this I need to hear!"

"Well, when I realized I'd forgotten the reader, he told me there was a library in the estate and that perhaps we could find something else to read there. So we went upstairs…and there was a library, but it was in a ghastly state. We started trying to put some semblance of order in the room…and while we did so, we began talking…And we sat together and talked for a very long time. "

"He needed _reading_ lessons, not _conversation_ lessons! You're the worst teacher ever," Hawke teased.

"That's not all that happened," she disclosed, grinning shyly.

"You dusted and mopped too?" Hawke ribbed her.

Bethany leaned in closer to her ear.

"He kissed me."

Hawke halted in the middle of the market.

"He WHAT?"

"Ssh!" Bethany's face contorted into an irritated grimace.

They wandered past the stalls together in silence: Bethany hooking her arm contentedly while Hawke stared at everything with incredulity. She peered at her sister with a twinge of envy.

"So how did you manage that fortuitous development?" she asked.

"Well, we were talking and he was wondering if he should bother learning how to read at this stage of his life, and I told him that yes, of course he should. And then he asked me why. So I told him that he would find himself feeling less alone, that through books he would discover things he had never imagined, that he would learn from others—it was as rich an experience as going on a voyage. I noticed he was looking at me differently," Bethany added, squeezing her sister's arm. "He said that when he was alone, all he wanted to do was drink. So then I asked him if he liked being alone. And then he said—"

"Wow—suddenly all I want to do is drink, as well! Maker's balls, can you just get to the good part?"

"Oh, Marian," she inhaled happily. "He told me that he would be even lonelier while I was away on the expedition—I thought I was going to faint! That would have been enough…But then he drew closer and lifted my chin and…Did you know Fenris' eyes have a bit of gold in them?"

"Fresh seasoned chiffonade?" a vendor interrupted, thrusting a small sack filled with chopped greens at them.

"Yes, it is," Hawke retorted dazedly, steering her sister forward.

"It was…so…wonderful," she mused longingly. "He promised he would come to the farewell tonight."

"Bethany." Hawke turned to her sister. "That's…That's wonderful. I'm happy for you. I know you've cared about him for a long time now."

"I can't believe it myself!" she agreed.

"I'm a bit envious! I'm supposed to be the older sister, blazing the trails, showing you how it's done…"

"Or how it's not done…" Bethany joked. Hawke tried to cast her a reproachful glare, but both sisters burst out laughing.

"You know what? I can almost feel it," Hawke declared decisively. "Our luck is changing."

"You think?"

"I do. I really do. Good things are finally starting to happen." She glanced around the market, for once feeling more at ease. "It's about time, isn't it? We've been through enough. We've had enough shit flung our way. It can't get worse, can it?" Hawke told her hopefully.

Bethany peered forward, a hint of sadness crossing her face.

"I am regretting a bit that I am going on the expedition." She bit her lip. "Is it too late to back out now?" she wondered.

Hawke crossed her arms.

"Please tell me you are joking. Please tell me that this—the golden opportunity you've been preaching to me about ever since we stepped off the boat from Ferelden—is something you're going to help me see through."

Bethany hesitated.

"But you already have Varric…and Anders. And Bartrand. And you're more than capable…

"Fuck, Bethany—this was a conversation we should have had weeks ago! You can't back out now! Besides, you were the one insisting on coming along, damn it! Bartrand wanted someone more experienced and I vouched for you! And Mother was freaking out and I had to talk her into it!"

Bethany peered down at her feet as they walked.

"Come on! Before this, you were raring to go! You can't just back out because of a kiss!"

"It's just…this is so new. It's so upsetting having to walk away from him now. Now of all times! We just figured out we share the same feelings for each other…"

"Listen: we're not going to be away that long. We're going in, hitting a few thaigs, picking up some treasure, and hauling it all back home. Once we do that, my dear, we might even be neighbors with Fenris," she suggested.

Bethany smiled faintly.

"Come on…have a little faith! I doubt his feelings for you will fade while you are away, you ninny. If anything, it's one: going to give him a perfect excuse to brood, which is his favorite hobby. Don't deny the boy. And two: he's going to want to do more than kiss when you get back," she insinuated. Bethany's hand shot out and rapped her arm. Hawke snickered. "Come: we're supposed to buy some fancy winter cloaks under the pain of mockery."

They began to browse through a row of merchants selling traveling and winter cloaks, boots, and gloves, hats and other apparel, trying different items on, laughing and ribbing each other, especially as Hawke made comical faces upon learning the exorbitant prices of everything she was considering buying.

"These are all fine wares, Serrah," one merchant huffed at Hawke's staggering backward theatrically upon hearing the cost of a simple woolen cloak. "All the materials are of the highest quality and skilled artisans make a living crafting these."

"Don't you have anything more affordable?" Hawke complained, much to Bethany's embarrassment.

The vendor tugged at his grizzly beard.

"Let me see…I do have a few items," he muttered, turning towards the back of his tent. "You are welcome to look through them if you'd like…but I don't know if there will be anything to your li—"

"O-ho! What is this?" Hawke cried, raising a long swath of deep crimson cloth off a heap on the ground.

"Oh, not those!" the man interjected. "Those haven't sold in months—I'm sending them back—"

Hawke threw the long cape over her shoulders and examined herself in the standing mirror at the front of the tent.

"Perfect," she decided.

"Oh, no, Marian…" Bethany shook her head. "You have to be joking."

The man observed the scene cautiously.

"It is of excellent quality. The furrier is from Denerim, one of the best in all of Ferelden…Perhaps it's just that this isn't a style that has caught on in Kirkwall yet…" he backtracked.

Hawke turned in small circles in the tent, occasionally pausing in different poses before the mirror: arms crossed, a defiantly tilted hip, and smoldering expressions.

"You aren't serious," Bethany asked, her eyebrows raised.

"I'll take it!" she declared triumphantly. "Is there a discount?"

* * *

Varric rested his elbows on the table and rubbed his hands together impatiently. Around him the mood was lighthearted. He watched as Isabela and Aveline ribbed poor Anders, who looked glum that evening.

"This is a major, major inconvenience," Anders complained, an objection that he'd been issuing since he'd been recruited to go on the expedition. "I really detest the Deep Roads."

"Don't worry," Isabela purred. "I'll take good care of your clinic."

"You most certainly will not," he huffed. "And Theodora and Bevin have instructions to turn you right out if you show up!"

"I'm going to drink all your precious felandaris infused tonics while you are away," she teased.

"You would, you would…"

"And I'm afraid all those cats at your clinic are a health code violation," Aveline added.

"You wouldn't dare!" he scolded her.

The two women laughed.

"Ah, Aveline! You and I make a formidable pair," Isabela hinted longingly.

"Don't ruin the moment," Aveline quipped, glancing around the room. "Where are Hawke and Bethany?" she wondered. At the mention of Bethany's name, Fenris sat up and looked around restlessly.

"So, Merrill," Isabela continued. "I am delighted we are going to be neighbors while Varric's away!" She raised her tankard.

"What's this all about?" Anders wondered, turning to Varric.

"Hemming threatened to sublet my room if I wasn't occupying it. Daisy here will be holding down the fort for me while I'm away."

He glanced towards the door, growing more and more apprehensive. Hawke was late.

"I'm surprised Hemming agreed to allow an elf to stay at his inn. No one seems to let elves go anywhere but the Alienage," Cullen declared. Varric had invited him to join them under the pretense of going over a few contingency plans while he and Hawke were away.

"Daisy's here often enough that he doesn't mind her anymore."

"I'm relieved he doesn't mind my being an elf or a mage—" she began only to stop herself, mild horror on her face as it dawned on her that Cullen was sitting among them. _"_ Magenificent baker," she reiterated weakly.

There was an interesting rapport between the Templar and their band. He did not pry or prod and they always avoided alluding to any mage-related conversation in his presence, unless it had to do with a mission or contract he brought to them.

"Oh, please bake your bread for these two every day, Merrill," Anders joked.

They were getting around to ordering another round of drinks over the rowdy din of the tavern when Bethany appeared, breaking through the closely packed crowd blocking the way to their corner table.

"Bethany!" Varric interjected. "We were going to send out a search party for you two!"

"Sorry. Our errand took slightly longer than expected," she retorted. " _Someone_ made a scene everywhere we went once prices were disclosed," she complained.

Varric looked towards the crowd.

"And where is that someone?" he inquired. Bethany, however, had stepped away, distracted. She made her way towards the empty seat by Fenris. He kept perusing the crowd, but allowed his gaze to hover occasionally over the younger Hawke and the elf.

 _Something's up_ , he gathered, out of the corner of his eyes. _Those two aren't saying a word, but won't stop making eyes at each other._

He was busy confirming his suspicions when he heard a small commotion from the crowd as people dispersed.

"Coming through!" a cocky voice announced.

Hawke emerged from the crowd, a smug grin on her lips.

"Sweet Andraste—what are you wearing?" Anders cried out.

Varric stared incredulously. Hawke raised her chin and placed her arms akimbo as she faced their table.

"I am ready for the expedition," she announced. Merrill clapped excitedly. She was the only one.

"Whatever animal that was made of, I hope it is now extinct," Isabela mocked.

Hawke merely swished her mantle from side to side gleefully.

"Where in the world did you get that?" Aveline chuckled.

Hawke ran her fingers through the long furs lining the collar.

"I'll have you know I bought this in Hightown."

"Bethany, I thought you were supposed to be chaperoning her during your shopping trip!" Isabela continued, greatly amused.

"I tried." She shrugged.

Hawke proudly displayed her deep crimson mantle with golden accents and a thick, dark fluffy and furry collar. It fit over her frame like a coat of sorts, only without sleeves.

"I don't know what to say," Varric stated, bewildered.

"I do!" Isabela taunted, relishing the scene. "It's like beholding the bastard lovechild of a loom and a bear!" she cackled. "Right?" she goaded the others.

"That's still more lineage than what your non-existent pants have," Hawke retorted. "Hemming!" she shouted over the din. "Next round of drinks at the table is on me!"

"Is it Satinalia?" Anders provoked.

"Funny—I never know either! I look at you and you keep throwing me off …" she teased back. "I'll have you all know this is some very fine Fereldan tailoring right here and it is fashioned in the style worn by the great Alamarri chieftains," she explained, punctuating her clarification with a little sniff. "You've all been schooled."

She sat beside Varric.

"Such provincial tastes, these rubes," she huffed.

Varric contemplated her with delight. He was tempted to tell her the cloak selection was wildly impractical. It was too big. It didn't have proper sleeves. The fur collar was cumbersome. He caught himself wanting to scold her a little, threatening to drag her back to exchange it.

But he noticed something about her at that moment. There was something he hadn't seen in her for a long time. It was in the way she was swaggering, in how she was carrying herself right then.

She was _happy_.

As she sat beside him and faced him with that sassy defiance of hers, he realized that there would be other opportunities along the way to secure her some more sensible gear.

"What do you think?" she asked him at last. "Did I nail it or what?"

He nodded, raising his tankard.

"It's very you," he admitted.

"Ah! An elusive reply," she teased. "That's a diplomatic way of saying you don't like it."

"You're wrong," he countered. "If it's very you, how could I not like it," he confided gently, leaning in closer to her ear.

She awarded him with a disarming smile. He was still grinning himself when he glanced up and caught Cullen staring very openly at her.

 _What is he thinking?_ Varric puzzled, his own expression quickly clouding. He leaned back, extending a protective arm over the back of Hawke's chair while shooting a glare at the Templar.

 _Take your business elsewhere, Curly_ , he thought with annoyance.

"Where in Hightown did you find that cloak?" Cullen asked abruptly, oblivious to Varric's growing aggravation at his appraising stares.

"Guy in a red tent in the square right outside the cathedral," Hawke told him.

"Now you know to avoid it like the plague!" Isabela chuckled.

"Vendor is called Saywell? Faywell?" Hawke scrunched up her nose trying to remember.

"Taywell," Varric offered curtly. "Clothier—imports textiles and clothes from Ferelden and Orlais."

"Also ransacks closets from Ages past, apparently!" Isabela continued to pester.

"He has a bunch of these left!" Hawke confided.

"I can't imagine why…" Anders muttered.

"It's…It's a very handsome garment," Cullen nodded approvingly. "I will have to visit this merchant."

"Thank you, Cullen!" Hawke exclaimed, slapping the surface of the table with satisfaction. "Here we have a man with excellent, discerning taste!"

"I suppose nobody is perfect," Isabela sighed.

"What will Knight-Commander Meredith say of her second-in-command wandering about Kirkwall in Alamarri chieftain garb?" Aveline teased Cullen.

"He can always wear it on his furloughs!" Merrill suggested. Cullen nodded slowly, finally drawing his gaze away.

Varric relaxed. He looked at Hawke in her ridiculous cloak, and gazed at her contented expression, and her eyes bright.

"Ready for tomorrow?" he asked.

"I can't wait," she told him. "It's about time."

"And what about your sister?" He tilted his head suggestively towards Bethany who was having a very hushed conversation with Fenris further down the table. She glanced at the couple as onwell and smirked.

"You don't miss anything, do you, Tethras?" she teased.

"No, my Lady. I don't. I take it there will be a lot of sighing during our trip?"

"Apparently Fenris has feelings for Bethany that aren't consistent with his general world view of mages."

"Great timing." He shook his head.

He saw Hawke's face grow serious.

"Tell me about it. She actually asked me if she could stay back."

Varric shifted in his seat, grimacing slightly.

"And what did you say?"

Hawke turned to face him.

"I…told her the truth. I thought she should come. She's wanted to come all along. She's been pushing me all this time to find us a way out of our uncle's…"

Varric rested his elbow over the table and rested his cheek against his fist.

"I believe you can accomplish at least that much now that you are the co-owner of a mine," he suggested.

"I know. But…It's complicated. Bethany constantly needs to demonstrate her...It's like she feels she doesn't contribute enough, that she hasn't proven herself. I think she feels guilty that we always had to be on the move because she is an apostate."

"She can't take all the credit for uprooting the family: your father was an apostate mage. Your mother made a choice so she could be with him." He loved gazing into those luminous hazel eyes.

"I think she needs this. She needs to come back and look our mother in the eye and say, 'Here—I got you our ancestral home back. I did it.' Because I can tell, Varric—she's too sweet to do so consciously, but I worry that deep inside she resents me. I'm the one always calling the shots. I think that if she goes, she gets to assert herself. And it's something that makes her feel like her contribution was meaningful, worthwhile. She's always been so sheltered, her movements so calculated, so restricted. " She glanced again at her sister, a sadness crossing her expression. "This is important. In this expedition, she's an equal partner. A full member. Not a tag-along. This way she can own her actions. She can distance herself from all my formidable fuckups and be her own person."

"And own up to her own fuckups?" Varric proposed, staring at those soft lips of hers.

"Yes, because I have elevated it to an art, you know."

He licked the frothy foam off his lips and chuckled. They briefly observed the two.

"What do you think, Varric? Did I do the right thing?"

"I think you did what you felt was right," he told her.

"I'm not going to regret this, am I?" she asked him, her hand slipping beneath the table, grazing over his leg and seeking the comfort of his hand. At her touch, something inside him relented and gave way to a sweetness he'd buried beneath layers of skepticism and disappointment.

"And how is your worrying over Bethany helping her become her own person?"

Hawke nodded pensively.

Cullen, who had been occasionally glaring disapprovingly at inebriated Templars bumbling past their table, finally shook his head.

"It's disgraceful," he lamented.

"It's a damned good cover, I say. Let them get well and soused because when they say they saw Knight-Captain Cullen drinking with a party of ruffians at the Hanged Man, no one will believe them!" Isabela reasoned.

"Isabela," Anders began, having already become quite soused himself, "you are such a clever minx. If I come back from this expedition a wealthy man, I'm going to buy you a new ship!" he slurred.

"I will hold you to that," she teased.

"Oh, as long as you hold me…" He leaned towards her unsteadily.

"Ooof, Anders—right now you're a human bomb. You've had too much to drink!" she complained, wincing and waving her hand before her face.

"Why don't you set me off," he snickered suggestively.

Merrill even turned around to see what the pirate would say.

"You promised me a ship, sweet thing, not a dinghy." She winked saucily.

The others began to laugh. Even Fenris and Bethany had interrupted their tête-à-tête to eavesdrop, amused expressions on both their faces.

"Look at this." Hawke indicated the scene before them. "All of us here, right now. It's pretty damn perfect, isn't it?" she uttered softly, lacing her fingers between his. "It is something to look forward to when we return."

She raised her tankard at them all.

"To the celebration we'll be holding when we return!" she called out.

Varric raised his tankard, clicking it against hers.

"Hear, hear."

"It can only get better from here," she told him, courageous optimism in her eyes. "It has to."


	19. Chapter 19

"The Deep Roads await!" Bartrand roared as they headed towards the docks.

Hawke skulked behind, a line of hirelings forging ahead. Varric had fallen back, waiting for her.

"I fucking hate your fucking brother," she muttered glaringly.

"Come on, Hawke! I wish you were less cryptic about how you _really_ feel," he teased.

"Did your mother drop him on his head a lot when he was a baby?"

"Even if she had, the distance from her arms to the floor wouldn't have been that great," he joked.

Hawke managed a weak grin.

"It's hard to believe you two are related."

Varric peered ahead, his brother's back barely visible as they made their way through the market crowds.

"It may seem strange, but as far as business goes, our different styles complement each other. Bartrand can be difficult—I'll be the first to agree—but don't underestimate his effectiveness. He's shrewd and his calculations are often spot-on. He's stodgy in his ways and mistrustful of anyone who isn't a dwarf…Heck, he barely trusts dwarves as it is…But that often works to our advantage."

"So, basically: he's an asshole, but he's our asshole, is what you're saying?"

Varric smirked.

"Something like that."

He sought out their chartered ship awaiting at the docks, a flurry of activity involving loading crates unfolding on the gangplank. When he glanced at Hawke again, he caught her stare—a heavy air about her. She was watching Bethany, who had made the trajectory to the docks silently. He looked away guiltily, if only by association, as Bartrand's ungracious handling of the dramatic farewell that took place earlier still bothered him.

* * *

They had assembled that morning, their spirits still buoyed by the cheer of the previous evening, ready to depart. Fenris had come along and had been standing next to Bethany as the moment to leave approached. True to his nature, the elf was quiet and brooding. Varric had even felt a bit sheepish, knowing very well how despondent he would be if he were the one having to say farewell, for so many weeks at that, to the woman he fancied. At least Hawke would be by his side.

_Even if we've agreed we're off limits to each other for now_.

He pressed his lips together contemplating Hawke's shapely legs further ahead, recalling how strong and smooth they felt under his hands that night back in his room.

_There is always hope she will cave. She can be very obstinate over some things…but evinces no willpower regarding other matters: sweets, cheap liquor, the poor and downtrodden…and hopefully— me?_

He was chuckling at his own train of thought when Leandra emerged from the crowd, a haggard expression on her face, oblivious to Bartrand's pompous issuing of orders.

"Now, before we…wait," He halted abruptly, aware of her proximity and interest in their party. "Who invited the old woman?"

Leandra drew closer, as they all turned to look.

"I'm sorry to interrupt, Ser dwarf, but I need to speak to my children," she declared anxiously.

_Children_ , Varric grimaced, casting his brother a surreptitious glance as Hawke and Bethany hurried towards her. _I'll wager_ t _wo sovereigns that this is going to end badly._

"Mother? I told you not to get involved with this!" Bethany called out. Leandra ignored her.

"I just want to know one thing: are you really planning on taking Bethany with you?"

The question was asked in a sharp, defiant tone addressed at Hawke.

"I can't leave Bethany behind. I need her."

Hawke's voice was calm and steady. Varric noticed, however, how she clenched and unclenched her fist.

_Hold your ground, Hawke_ , he thought, watching her helplessly, making sure he stayed back a certain distance, not interfering.

"Mother…I'll be fine. I want to go," Bethany retorted in a hushed voice, aware of the curious stares they were being subjected to.

"It's not fine!" Leandra countered, her brow furrowing. "You can't both go!" She contemplated her younger daughter with heartbreaking concern. "What if something were to happen to you?"

Her expression hardened as she examined Hawke.

"You, I understand wanting to do this," she said dryly.

The fist clenched and held still, Varric saw. Hawke stiffened at Leandra's cutting remark. There was no tenderness, no worry in her words. Only resentment, he sensed. He felt a pang in his chest and he found himself growing restless, eager to be on their way.

_Hang in there,_ he hoped, feeling helpless.

"But leave your sister here, I beg you!" Leandra continued.

To her credit, Bethany stepped up.

"It's the Templars or the darkspawn, Mother. At least I'm allowed to fight darkspawn," she stated.

"Well, you're not going to be able to take everyone, anyhow. You'll need to decide," Bartrand interrupted, indicating Anders, Fenris, and Bethany to Hawke with a casual wave of his hand.

Leandra peered at Hawke pleadingly.

"We're all ready to go," Hawke answered more brusquely, her patience straining. "Our friend Fenris is only here to see us off."

"Bethany, I beg you! Don't go! Don't do this!" Leandra blocked their way, wringing her hands.

Bethany did hesitate. She looked at Fenris, as if mulling a thought.

_Shit_. Varric exhaled. _Is she going to cave? Now?  
_

One glance at Hawke, acting so steadfast, though, steered her back on course.

"I'll be fine, Mother. I promise. This will work out for the best. You'll see," Bethany finally told her.

Leandra covered her face with her hands and a silent understanding passed between the two sisters.

"Fenris," Bethany began, "Would you be so kind as to see Mother back home?"

Fenris' disappointment was tangible, Varric could tell. He had wanted to accompany them to the docks, to stay by Bethany's side for as long as possible.

"If it's what you wish," he replied.

It appeared as if Leandra was going to say something more as she turned towards Hawke, but Bartrand intruded yet again.

"Personal drama over with?" he mocked loudly. A surge of annoyance rose inside Varric as he saw his brother callously step between the quarreling family.

Hawke nodded faintly and without another word, Leandra began trudging towards Lowtown.

"Let's get underway!" Bartrand boomed to their company.

Varric averted his gaze to avoid the sad, wistful expressions on Fenris and Bethany's faces as they uttered hasty good-byes and the elf departed, following after Leandra. He managed to catch a glimpse of Hawke's expression.

He knew Hawke very well—knew her various facets and how terrible she was at two-facedness any attempts at artfully deceiving. So when he saw the dispassionate, detached look on her face, he was taken aback. He knew that there was a toughness to Hawke that he could only surmise—she had had to develop some way of sheltering herself from all the silent accusations heaped on her. Leandra, Gamlen… Bethany, too, even if less intentionally. She not only weathered all their blame, she also sought to alleviate it. He hated that she was the target of all their blame. It had taken a toll on her, he knew…But that expression he'd caught…That had been something unsettling, he found.

That hardness in her was unfamiliar, even dissonant.

He did not like it, or what it could possibly mean.

_It's not you, Hawke. Don't think you owe them in that way_. He'd have to find a way to talk to her about it.

He could tell Bartrand was winding up for a second wave of protests against their partners, so he quickly insinuated himself, flanking him and resting a conciliatory, distracting hand over his shoulder.

"Been a long time coming, eh, Brother?" Varric patted him encouragingly.

Successfully distracted, Bartrand directed his attention to him. He cracked a grin.

"That it has!" he uttered.

* * *

_"You, I understand wanting to do this."_

The words echoed in Hawke's mind persistently, the utter disregard in them so evident to her.

_You_ , Leandra had been saying, in truth, _are expendable._

_You_ , Hawke tortured herself, _I can bear losing._

_You, I don't love as much._

Varric had tried a few times to broach the topic with her during their trip, with little success.

"Want to talk about it?" he'd asked as they stood on the ship's prow, the Waking Sea choppy and gray as sea spray misted over them.

"There's nothing to talk about," she told him, shrugging her shoulders. "It is what it is."

"Which is what?" he insisted.

She would not reply and instead gazed ahead, at the sea and wintry sky. She was grateful he did not insist.

_My fault,_ was her reply to the question, in her thoughts. _My fault._

* * *

Finding an entrance point into the Deep Roads had been no small feat.

"Orzammar will not grant you access to any of the known entrances in the Frostbacks," a messenger had reported back to them as they overnighted at the base of the mountain soon after they arrived.

"I don't need them to grant me anything—" Bartrand growled, as if the messenger had the power to alter the decision. "I only need them to stay out of my way."

"Anyone found seeking access to any of the known passageways will be imprisoned," the messenger continued, contritely. "Per order of the Grey Wardens," he added.

They all turned to Anders, who shook his head.

"What? Do you expect me to wave my hands and make it all better?" he provoked.

"You would prove yourself useful for once," Bartrand argued, glaring accusingly at him.

"It's not suprising," Varric reasoned, in an attempt to mitigate tempers. "I am sure we aren't the only ones who have seen a profitable opportunity exploring the Deep Roads. And the Grey Wardens are only doing their job—"

" _Your_ job," Bartrand quipped at Anders.

"Guarding passages that are known exits for darkspawn," Varric completed, peeved.

They should have anticipated that when it came to something as questionable as laying claim to the Deep Roads, bribes and calling in favors would yield very little. Varric peered around the room, the announcement having raised an impasse that soured everyone's spirits. He pushed away from the table, where he had been playing a game of Wicked Grace with some of the hirelings. Even that had raised Bartrand's hackles.

_You socialize with them, act as if you were one of them. It's humiliating to see you debasing yourself like that. Don't forget they are paid to do what they do. You don't need to kiss their asses, too._

But then again, he remembered, Bartrand had never been well liked or been known for his charm.

"I'm headed to bed," he announced irritably. It was late, and he was growing tired of that holding pattern they were stuck in.

* * *

It was ironic, he realized, entering the small bedroom he and Bartrand would be sharing for the night. They had waited over a year—without an end in sight, at that—before they were ready to head out. Now, a mere couple days since arriving on the shores of Ferelden, he was chomping at the bit, impatient and eager to move forth.

_Can't wait to get this over with._

The promise of fabled riches, of course, was the carrot at the end of the stick, the main purpose. There was, also, the need to be done with that forced familiarity between his brother and him. The more time he spent with Bartrand, the more restless he felt. It seemed that back in Kirkwall, in the context of their every day lives, of the established routines and familiar faces, his brother was not as loathsome as he was coming off during that trip, in how he dealt with the unexpected, the unforeseen, and new acquaintances.

He'd had ample opportunity to observe his brother over the last days to conclude that the drive and spark that had spurred Bartrand's ambitions still blazed brightly, but illuminated fewer appealing facets of his character. Once, he'd contrived to mask his lack of congeniality and sincerity with lavish social events that had provided him with a setting from which to launch various proposals and bids that garnered him favor and influence in the Merchant's Guild. Now, he had done away with such subterfuges. Once Bartrand had attained a certain position, a kind of social and economic pinnacle, he had dropped the pretenses: the usefulness of certain friendships had run its course and festive occasions had become wasteful.

_I don't blame Raella one bit_ , Varric concluded, remembering Bartrand's former fiancée, a proud heiress of House Dace, who despite a certain haughtiness would have brought life and cheer back to the Tethras' estate. _She understood in time that she would have been buried alive if she were to go through with it._

He was well aware of the prejudices Bartrand harbored against all non-dwarves. Varric had borne his snide asides about humans and elves for most of their lives, but such observations sat less well with him once they began to target his friends.

Especially Hawke.

There was no way of making him understand, of hoping he would express a modicum of sympathy, much less compassion. The measure of anyone's worth, in Bartrand's eyes, had to do with race, birth, wealth, and influence—in essence, their usefulness in fulfilling his ambitions.

"Luck," Bartrand had concluded one evening, after he, Varric and Hawke had presided over some negotiations with some blighters who'd signed up to assist them. "That's the only possible explanation for how that bumbling fool managed to cough up the gold for this expedition," he explained knowingly. "The thing is that luck, like any other commodity, eventually runs out and if you haven't diversified your investments, you will hit rock bottom." He grinned maliciously. "But then again, she's a Fereldan refugee. Rock bottom might still be a step up," he chortled. Varric hadn't liked the way Bartrand's eyes appraised Hawke during that conversation. They were filled with aversion. "Look at her. Gangly thing. No wonder she had to hustle the likes of Athenril." He smacked his lips derisively. "No man would ever choose her in a Blooming Rose lineup."

"You're inspired tonight and your little speech has achieved its unintentional goal," he yawned. "I can't keep my eyes open. I'm off to bed."

"Don't think I haven't noticed how you seem to favor her." He examined Varric cautiously.

He'd paused. The conversation had just taken a dangerous turn.

"She's my friend. A reliable partner." He'd tried to sound nonchalant.

"Reliable partner…That's _rich_ ," Bartrand scoffed. "You know the saying," he threatened.

Varric rolled his eyes, but he was clenching his jaw in anger.

"It may be your fucking business, but keep your fucking and your business separate," Bartrand recited the infuriating adage.

"Hmm…Bartrand, can you even distinguish between the two?" he jabbed. Bartrand had answered him with a low, rumbling laugh.

Another reason to be done with that expedition as soon as possible: since their arrival he'd had little opportunity to spend any time with Hawke. Not only was he forced to attend to all those other organizational matters, he had grown wary of Bartrand's scrutiny. He didn't believe his brother capable of any violent acts, but he knew for a fact he would swindle Hawke out of her share of their agreement if given a chance. He made sure he flanked Bartrand constantly, if only to keep him from pursuing any nefarious opportunities.

_I miscalculated how draining all of this would be_ , he thought tiredly, settling between the sheets. And Hawke, too, seemed out of sorts.

_Things did not start off well. She's probably letting that weigh on her. And then she's probably scared stiff. She used to being the hired hand, not the boss. She's out of her element_ , he understood. _She is trying to hold her head up, but I bet this is taking a toll on her, as well._ In the evenings, the sisters retreated early to their room. When they did remain among them, Bethany would be hunched over parchment, scribbling away, while Hawke would sit beside her and nurse a drink quietly.

On one night, she had peered up from her tankard and caught his stare. His expression softened. He blinked at her slowly, tilting his head and smiling faintly. He hoped she would pick up on his longing, his concern for her. In return, he expected one of her rallying smirks, or perhaps something disarmingly candid, like one of her playful, warm grins. He would have settled for something subtler, like a shrug, or even a comical pursing of her lips. Anything that confirmed the bond between them. Instead, he met with a miserable, despondent gaze that quickly broke away from his and remained downcast for the remainder of the evening.

It filled him with worry.

_What's going on, Hawke? What terrible things are echoing around in your head?_

He realized, as he sorted through the heaviness assailing him that evening, that he had to reach her somehow, despite everything.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year, friends! Wishing everyone much *joy* in the upcoming year!
> 
> Bartrand's dialogue in Kirkwall is from the game, as well as Leandra's plea to Hawke.
> 
> I know that in game they decide to take a Deep Roads route in the Marches, but I dig the Frostbacks (no pun intended...groan) and find them far more exciting and dramatic...Especially to two dwarves considered kalnas.


	20. Chapter 20

Debris piled along the path to the large door outfitted with rusted locks. The entrance would have been easy to overlook: just a craggy nook along the base of the mountain.

"Here," the blighter indicated, his heavy, thick hand tugging at one of the locks.

"Looks like it hasn't been tampered with in…years," Varric pointed out, squinting in the glare of the bright snow. The wind whipped over them, sharp and icy.

"Good," Bartrand declared. "The fact it wasn't breached during the last Blight is reassuring, as well!"

They contemplated the mountainside.

"Any suggestions?" Varric inquired. "I don't recommend explosives."

Bartrand pressed his lips and glanced up to a precarious formation of rocks hovering overhead.

"We'll bury the entrance," Varric warned.

"Anything you can do with those locks?" Bartrand turned to him.

Varric took one the chunky metal locks in his hand. They were old and made of the hardest metal known in Thedas by dwarven master craftsmen. _They're tough for good reason_ , he understood. _They're supposed to keep folks out_. He looked at the number of locks distributed around the door. _Or…to keep other things in_ , he shivered.

"Rusted solid," he stated after a brief, perfunctory inspection. "Intentionally so. These weren't made to be functional locks. They were made to rust on the surface and make any attempts at lock picking a nightmare. I don't have any picks that would survive being wrenched into that." He pointed at what essentially looked like a hunk of knotted metal.

"Maybe we should knock?" Hawke offered. Varric whirled around, surprised at finding her standing close by. She had a mischievous gleam in her eyes and he felt a tad foolish over the flutter in his stomach at seeing her somewhat revived.

"Hmm… 'Special delivery for the Archdemon' schtick?" he joked back. "Could work. We've dealt with even stupider foes…"

"For fuck's sake," Bartrand groused, pushing past the others. "I didn't come this far just to be stopped by a few cruddy locks!" He eyed Hawke disdainfully. "Or a pack of jokers."

He stood before the unyielding façade with his arms akimbo.

"Blow the whole thing up!" he decided.

Small protests erupted all around them.

"Have you gone stark raving mad?" Varric cried. "We risk an avalanche doing that. We also risk announcing to the entire Frostbacks that we are here, piquing the interest of not only Orzammar, but possibly some far less desirable inhabitants!"

"I want in. Now!" Bartrand growled. "Each day we waste knocking around for an entrance is gold wasted! Unless you come up with a better plan, I am blowing a crater into this wretched mountain!"

Varric inhaled sharply and held his breath, noticing Hawke brushing her gloved hand over the locks out of the corner of his eyes. Bartrand stomped off towards a barrel left in the makeshift camp they had established and began barking orders.

"Varric," Hawke called, yanking at one of the locks. "I have an idea."

"Does it involve using my brother as a battering ram? Because if it does, I am all in," he muttered under his breath.

"I'm thinking…" she began.

"Does it hurt?" Varric grinned.

"Not as much as using YOU as a battering ram would," she retorted spryly, stepping back so she was next to him.

"So what have you got?" he asked.

"Remember when we had to break into that vault in Darktown?"

"What vault?" He furrowed his brow as he tried to remember. "We've broken into so many—"

"The Sanctuary," Hawke clarified. "Where we found the grimoire. Remember there was a lock we couldn't crack? Remember what you said? Something about how things that are harder aren't as good at absorbing blunt blows?"

"Yes…" he admitted. "I do remember…But that was about a regular lock. I couldn't pick it, but one good strike from Aveline's sword was enough to shatter it. That's not going to happen here."

"But what if?..." Hawke rubbed the top of her hood. "Do we have mallets?"

"Is the Divine Andrastean?" He peered over his shoulder, towards the camp.

"Bethany!" Hawke signaled. "Get over here!"

Bethany hobbled over a pile of rocks strewn over the path.

"What is it?"

"Freeze this lock," Hawke ordered her.

Bethany balked.

"Freeze it? I'd say it's pretty frozen already!"

Varric tilted his head and stared at the lock before shifting his gaze to Hawke. He began nodding very slowly.

"You might be on to something!"

"Can you do it or not?" Hawke huffed impatiently.

"I can try, but I honestly don't see what good that—"

"Go, go, go!" Hawke urged her, indicating the lock. Bethany grumbled before removing her gloves and taking the lock between her hands. Varric rushed to the camp, in search of a mallet. He returned just in time to catch one of the locks turning white from Bethany's spell.

"Frozen solid," Hawke announced, pleased. "Ready?"

Varric heaved the mallet up and bore it down with all his might over the lock. Some pebbles rolled down from a small ledge that had been acting like a dam against some debris overhead, but neither the mountain...or the lock budged.

"Again!" Hawke encouraged him.

He hoisted it up once more and unleashed it squarely over the lock. This time, one of the corners shattered.

"Shit!" Varric turned to look at Hawke, impressed. The two shared a wild grin. After a volley of strikes, the lock crumbled off cleanly. "That was genius! Of course! The metal would become less flexible and brittle when frozen so thoroughly like that!"

"Beauty AND brains," Hawke informed her sister smugly as she tapped her head.

"Bethany, can you freeze the other locks? Let me tell Bartrand before he ends up blowing us all up as celebratory fireworks! We're going in!" he cheered.

* * *

Hawke had never seen anything like it.

She had imagined the Deep Roads as something very different—similar to the rustic mine tunnels she had explored during various missions. Nothing had prepared her for the sight of an almost intact passageway. The rocky terrain gradually gave way to smooth polished stone tiles lit by the radiant glow from crevices running along the wall.

"Magma," Varric explained. "These passageways are lit by filaments of magma channeled into conduits carved in the rock." Hawke began to lean over to peer downwards. "Don't!" he cautioned. "They are pretty far down, but every once in a while you get a smaller eruption. It's best to stay away."

"Wow," Hawke uttered quietly, marveling at the ornate friezes, the high architraves, and the massive piers running down the broad and expansive corridor. "Can you believe this?"

"Not bad, huh?"

He nodded nonchalantly, but in truth, he did not want to betray the awe he felt in seeing the many illustrations from the books of his childhood come to life before his eyes.

The main passageway reminded Hawke of a large tree trunk that branched off into multiple directions. She noticed that as they wandered further down, many of the side corridors had caved in or led to dismal darkness. Occasionally they passed balustrades with red lanterns glowing as if they had just been set down to guide them.

"Those have been glowing for hundreds of years, for all we know," Varric whispered, following Hawke's gaze.

"How is it possible?" Bethany wondered. "It's not magic."

"No," he agreed. "It's pyrophoricity. We dwarves discovered, long ago, that certain metals ignite when they come into contact with air." All those books, all those lessons, even fragments of conversations he'd had with Bianca…It was all there. All real.

"Can you imagine what this must have been like in its heyday?" Hawke mused. "It's very impressive. Just… beautiful."

"And filled with lovely darkspawn," Anders added glumly.

"Sense any yet?" Bethany asked.

"Nothing close by, no," Anders replied uneasily. "But don't worry: they're around."

* * *

Just as they began approaching a larger opening towards a bridge spanning over a deep chasm, one of the scouts Bartrand had dispatched to verify the stability of the passageway emerged. Bartrand raised a cautioning hand, forcing them to halt their march.

"There's been a collapse," the scout reported. "The way forward is blocked."

Ahead a misty haze hovered in the air giving the area an otherworldly feel. The tiles had, in fact, appeared more damaged, more dilapidated as they approached the bridge. Rock spalls spilled over the path and a larger pile of rubble obstructed their way.

"What? Is there some way around?" Bartrand sized up the scout, stepping towards him in a menacing way. The scout took a few steps back, eager to avoid the dwarf's wrath at the unwelcome news.

"Not that I've been able to find," he apologized. "The side passages are too dangerous."

Bartrand raised his hand to his beard and tugged at it pensively. He appeared to shrug for a moment, before he quickly cocked his arm back and struck the unfortunate scout with a blow to the head.

"Useless!" he roared, as the man toppled to the ground dazedly. "What am I paying you blighters for?"

It was as if a collective shudder coursed through their party at the display of rage.

"Set camp!" he cried out.

The hirelings dispersed, quickly fanning out and securing a quiet spot further from the rubble and passageways to hunker down for the night.

"Older siblings…so difficult…" Bethany sighed to Varric.

"You know, that only applies to _dwarven_ siblings," Hawke sniffed.

Varric stared at the fallen scout who was rubbing his jaw. He exhaled heavily.

"I should probably go talk to him." He looked at Anders, Bethany, and Hawke, who had remained close to him, as if they constituted their own separate party. "Go put your packs down. We're not going anywhere for a bit."

Hawke remained by his side, even as Anders and Bethany joined the others. Just as he was about to step forward, he felt Hawke's hand alight on his shoulder. She squeezed it gently.

"Hey… Is everything all right?"

He cast a quick glance to the side, making sure Bartrand was not watching them. Satisfied they were being largely ignored, he clasped her hand and let his fingers graze over hers.

Maker, he'd missed her something awful. He hadn't had a moment alone with her…not really, not since they'd left Kirkwall.

"Hey yourself. I was about to ask you the same thing," he said gently.

"Are we having fun yet?" she asked warily. He couldn't help chuckling.

"There's been some mistake, you see," she continued. "This is the worst vacation trip…" she continued, feigning confusion.

"This is a fucking mess," he lamented quietly. "I hope we don't regret this."

"When we're ridiculously rich, we can laugh about this. You'd better embellish the crap out of this adventure when you write about it."

"At the rate we're going, I may not have to. It's pretty unbelievable as it is."

"I can't wait until we hit all the Deep Road souvenir merchants!" she joked.

At Varric's silence, she squeezed his shoulder again.

"We're going to find a way. We can do this. Are you worried at all? Don't you worry."

He smiled sadly.

"Why did you have to go and say that? I was the one supposed to be giving you the pep talk."

"Great minds think—"

"Are you ok?" he asked, gripping her hand firmly. "You haven't been quite yourself."

"This mountain air is brutal for my complexion," she confessed playfully.

"Come on," he urged her.

"I'm just nervous," she stated. "I prefer it when it's just us on a mission—no Bartrand, no blighters…"

"It's more than that. There's something you're not telling me. Something hasn't been right since we left Kirkwall."

Hawke hesitated.

"You are so extremely annoying," she huffed. "Why can't you be more self-absorbed and focus on this expedition instead?" she censured him. He grinned.

"So?"

"What?"

"It has to do with your mother, doesn't it?"

Her hand slid off his shoulder and fell to her side despondently.

"Can we talk about this later?"

"Fine," he agreed. "But I want you to know this much: don't let her determine your worth, Hawke."

She appeared at a loss for words.

"Her bitterness is her problem—not yours."

"She hasn't forgiven me for what happened to Carver, you know," she whispered. "I'd be lying if I said it hasn't been weighing on me. Especially now, given the circumstances..."

"There's nothing to forgive."

"I fucked up and she's afraid I'll do it again... If I had charged the ogre back in Lothering, Carver would still be here."

"Perhaps," Varric nodded, interrupting that conversation they had shared several times before. "Or perhaps you'd be dead. And she would be blaming Carver. Or Bethany. Or maybe you would all be dead. There is no way of knowing for sure. It's a pointless scenario to entertain. You are here. " He clasped her arm. " _You_."

Her lip quivered slightly.

"And I couldn't be more thankful," he said tenderly. He noticed Bartrand peering about impatiently. "Damn it. I feel like we're being chaperoned at a Chantry ball. Can we continue this later on?"

She nodded.

"Really? You're not going to try to joke your way out of this one?"

"I might try," she admitted, smiling wanly.

"Looking forward to it, then." He winked, forcing himself to step away from her side.

* * *

"Problems, Brother?" Varric asked as he approached Bartrand.

"Sodding Deep Roads! Who knows how long it'll take to clear the path?"

 _And how many hirelings will remain after your temper tantrums…_ Varric wondered. _  
_

"Shall we not try to find a way around, instead? Seems like the logical choice," Varric pointed out calmly.

Bartrand blew up.

"You think I'm an idiot, Varric? The scouts say the side passages are too dangerous!"

Varric opened his mouth to offer a suggestion when Hawke interrupted.

"See? This is why you bring someone like me along."

He remembered what she had told him: _I prefer it when it's just us on a mission—no Bartrand, no blighters…_

Perhaps it could be arranged—at least for a little while.

"We'll take a look. If we come running back, screaming, you'll know staying put was the right decision," Varric proposed.

Bartrand's glare shifted between him and Hawke.

"Fine, fine!" he agreed testily. "Find a way around. Just... do it quickly!"

He turned his back to them and went towards the newly laid out camp.

* * *

"Shall we?" He cocked an eyebrow gallantly at her as he indicated a dismal passageway back towards where they had come from.

"Bethany! Anders! Gear up!" she called out. "It's like you read my mind." She turned to look at him. "Varric, you do know how to charm a woman."

"Who needs bonbons and bouquets when we've got deteriorating passageways swarming with darkspawn?" he joked, adjusting Bianca over his back. They watched Bethany and Anders haul their packs on and walk towards them.

"Can you guys smell that?" Hawke asked them, inhaling deeply, as they began to head down the passageway.

"Yes: it smells like curses and damnation," Bethany complained.

"I'd just like to clarify that it wasn't me," Anders chimed in.

"Smells like adventure." She was smiling, a fierce determination in her expression.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bartrand's dialogue with the scout and his overreaction are straight from the game, as well as Varric's proposal that they take a small party to find a different way into the Deep Roads. Bursts of magma were a thing in those passageways. Don't touch the walls.
> 
> And I spent an evening reading up on the difference between lava and magma, pyrophoricity, and radioactive elements because that's how much I love you people.


	21. Chapter 21

"This is why I left the Wardens. I hate the blighted Deep Roads." Anders contemplated the deserted passageway dourly.

"Let's take a look at the map," Hawke suggested. "Get our bearings, rule out some dead ends."

"You know, the whole concept of a dead end seems like an oxymoron to me." Bethany crouched beside Anders as he unfurled his maps over the dusty ground. He glanced up at her with a pleased grin.

"That's actually quite clever, Bethany! Because death is seen as an 'end' and an end is a definitive conclusion, a kind of 'death'!" Anders was being positively flirtatious. Hawke raised a cynical eyebrow.

"Save your breath and focus on the map—Bethany and Fenris are a _thing_ now." Hawke tapped her finger over the parchment. Anders looked up in surprised revulsion.

"Fenris?" He grimaced.

Bethany smiled shyly.

"Why ever would you…You do know he hates mages, right?" Anders' expression was of utter disbelief.

"Right now I'm hating a _certain_ mage," Hawke muttered. "Map! Lookie here!"

"You know, if it doesn't work out with Fenris, you can always come talk to me," he offered, reassuringly. "I'm a healer of the broken body…and of the wounded heart." He winked.

"And of the loose pants, too." Hawke swooped down protectively between him and Bethany. "Sweet Andraste, man! That's my _little sister_ you're propositioning!"

"I'm greatly misunderstood," Anders huffed.

"I can relate! I've been begging you to read this freaking map already!" Hawke cried. "Read my lips: MAP!" she enunciated exaggeratedly.

Varric leaned against the wall and watched them squabble as they usually did, with barbs exchanged between grins and amused snorts. Varric thought of Bartrand, back at the camp, sullenly leafing through his ledger, a scowl on his face, sitting further away, apart from everyone.

What did it mean, he thought, that he felt more at home with his friends, those "misfits", and that human woman he adored and whom his brother would never accept by his side, than with his own flesh and blood?

* * *

The passage descended into the mountain. Unlike the main passageway, the slabs of polished stone there were weathered, covered with pebbles and dust. It was all a deteriorating reminder of a past era.

"Just think…We might be the first people down here in what?...Ages!" Hawke looked around, in awe.

"I swore I would never come down here again," Anders complained, eyeing their surroundings uneasily.

Varric had fought darkspawn before, but he realized he had never been swarmed and threatened by darkspawn like Anders, Bethany, and Hawke. If he thought about it, fighting darkspawn was more of a sport for him. He'd have to be far away from home before encountering a hurlock. He'd never known that anxiety or the sinister feeling that his life was being upended because of a Blight. He'd weathered many of Kirkwall's storms, but none of them had been of such a cataclysmic nature.

"Sense any darkspawn approaching yet?" Hawke was intent on pestering the Grey Warden.

"No…But they're here." His eyes turned towards the domed ceiling in the chamber they found themselves in. "They're all around."

"So, how does that work, exactly? Do you get some kind of weird pain—or a strange bad feeling?" Hawke stepped over a small pile of rocky rubble.

"No, it's actually very pleasant, Hawke. Like rolling around with kittens, which in actuality, I'd much rather be doing."

"Seriously?" Hawke tilted her head. "It's kinda _nice_?"

"NO!" Bethany, Varric, and Anders all yelled.

Varric chuckled. The fact she was needling them all was keeping everyone from acknowledging that the surroundings were growing gloomier and more precarious.

"What are the chances that Bowen's son is all right?"

" It's ' _Bodhan',_ " Bethany corrected her.

"If he's not, then I hope he's already dead," Anders stated glumly.

"Anders is right. Blight sickness is incurable. A quick death is a preferable scenario in this case." Varric remembered all the haunting tales of those found wandering lost in the Deep Roads: unrecognizable, half-crazed and delusional. Ghoulish creatures.

"Why would anyone bring their children this far into the Deep Roads?" Bethany sighed.

Hawke shrugged, pointing at Anders without his being aware of it. Both Varric and Bethany laughed. Anders turned to glare at them.

"I like Bowen." Hawke continued. "Nice man."

"Bodhan!" Bethany cried, hopelessly baited by her sister's antics.

"Did you hear what he said? He was more worried about his kid getting lost down here. Thinks the boy has a fighting chance. Now THAT's faith," Hawke nodded. "Can you imagine Mother being like that? She's probably wandering around Kirkwall right now in a mourning shroud."

He noticed Bethany lowered her head and said nothing. Varric cleared his throat.

"Well, dwarves are resilient. And in Orzammar, dealing with darkspawn is part of everyday life."

"Resilient! Big and strong!" Hawke gritted her teeth and clenched her fist in a hammy display.

Varric snorted.

"I don't know about the big part, but strong? Most definitely."

"Big in other ways." She grinned.

The warm smile she flashed him revealed that she intended the comment as sweet, but after all her wisecracking, Bethany and Anders leaped on it. She had that ability to tease out the juvenile side in people.

"Big how, Marian?" Bethany teased suggestively.

"You mean 'how big'?" Anders countered. "When were you verifying Messere Tethras' girth, pray tell!" He was positively delighted to be antagonizing her.

Of course, they had no way of knowing what had passed between them…He could tell the comments had momentarily disconcerted her. The face she turned away from them hurriedly was bright red.

 _Good_ , Varric mused. _Hang on to that thought_.

"Although not scientifically substantiated, folk wisdom claims you can tell such things by looking at one's hands and feet, and Varric's are quite… substantial," Anders continued cheekily.

"You think so?" Varric feigned amazement. "I would need something to place beside them for comparison. Here—let me put my boot to your ass…" he provoked.

A loud clatter reverberated down the passageway. Overhead, ominous scurrying sounds scattered past them. They all halted in their tracks, hands tightly gripping their weapons.

"Anders?" Hawke's expression was surprisingly calm.

"Nothing significant," he acknowledged. "But remember—darkspawn aren't the only peril in these tunnels."

* * *

Despite the length and height of the hall they were coursing down, a smoky haze drifted from a chasm several hundred feet below. The air grew more and more stifling by the open pits. Sweat beaded over Hawke's brow and lips— salty and gritty, the taste lingered on her tongue.

They could all notice Anders' eyes gradually growing darker. He'd become paler, his skin sallow.

"Keep your guard up," he warned them. "Darkspawn further ahead."

"Here's what we're going to do." Varric pushed forward. "Hawke and I lead the charge. Bethany and—"

Hawke cupped her hands next to her mouth and yelled, "Fuck you, bastards! We're here to remind you how the last Blight FAILED!" She brandished her daggers and rushed into the dim tunnel. He, Anders, and Bethany scrambled to keep up with her.

"Shit, shit, shit!" he muttered under his breath.

* * *

The darkspawn lay lifelessly over the flagstones.

"That's for Lothering. How do YOU like it when people come to YOUR house and fuck everything up, huh?" Hawke kicked a hurlock's shoulder with the tip of her boot.

"I'm sure he'd have some dazzling insights to share, but right now he's dead." Varric pulled a couple arrows from the corpses.

"I haven't felt this productive in a long time." She sidestepped a few more bodies.

"Why do you think the Maker made so many of them?" Bethany wondered, a look of dismay over her pretty features.

"Keep exposure to their blood to a minimum," Anders reminded them. "A few drops won't harm you, but accumulated exposure—" He paused, straining to listen. "Blasted. More are coming. A larger group now."

"Bring it," Hawke growled, stepping forward and reaching for her daggers. "Bethany, ice the floor further ahead. I want to see the Blighted bastards slip and fall before we swoop down on them."

* * *

It seemed darkspawn lay in wait for them at every turn. To Varric's relief, though, they weren't that difficult to down. Perhaps the rumors that darkspawn were stronger during a Blight, when they drew strength from the Archdemon, were true, after all. These were not battle hardy darkspawn warriors. These were still untried. Fortunately.

Fortunately.

Their meanderings through the ruins had led them away from the forge-like heat of the tunnels into deeper passageways that glowed with bright blue lyrium veins sprouting from the ground. They reminded him of wizened tree branches spiking upwards. The veins glowed so brilliantly that they created the illusion of daylight. Such brightness emanated further ahead and they could make out the outline of a figure sitting quietly, almost expectantly, in front of a balustrade. A trail of dead darkspawn littered the narrow nave leading up to him.

Varric squinted—the light pierced his eyes sharply.

"Well, I'll be a nug's uncle," he marveled, looking at the scene of mayhem that had transpired there. "Isn't that… Bodhan's boy?"

Hawke furrowed her brow and approached the solitary figure. She hadn't been quite sure what to expect: certainly not the clean-shaven young man with the big innocent blue eyes. He blinked at her earnestly as she approached.

"Hello," he greeted them. It came out sounding more like a question.

"He survived this entire time," Bethany murmured in awe, further behind them.

Hawke took in the bodies strewn over the ground as she crouched before the dwarf.

"I'd really like to know how you managed to kill all of them. I might be a little envious!" she admitted.

The young man raised his hand obligingly and revealed to her what looked like a large pebble with runic markings smoothly etched on the surface. Hawke took it in her hand and stared at it before looking up at him again, a puzzled expression on her face.

"Boom," he uttered, his eyes growing wider.

Hawke grinned.

"I see!…Nicely done. I'm a big fan of 'boom' myself."

A silvery glint to the far left of the lad caught their attention. Standing as if made of crystal, frozen solid in mid-attack, was a hulking ogre. Hawke gaped.

"Uh…I'd really like to know how you did _that_." She nodded towards the menacing statue.

"Not enchantment," the dwarf clarified.

Without further explanation, he began to walk back up the nave, down towards the passageway they had just cleared.

"Just follow the trail of dead darkspawn!" Hawke called out. "You'll find your way back to the camp."

"Smart boy," Varric concluded.

They watched him disappear from view.

 _And… lucky boy. This ordeal ends now for him_. Varric sighed.

Across a chasm from which a bewitching blue light emanated was another passageway—this one less rough, more preserved, and with red lanterns shimmering.

"Come on: we still need to find a way past that collapse."

* * *

Hawke could no longer say if it had been a couple hours…or a day. Time passed differently somewhere without the signs and routines she had grown accustomed to. Her body ached and her chaffed and dry fingers bled. She was beyond exhausted. Every turn offered them more challenges: darkspawn and more darkspawn. Endless darkspawn. They were easy to trounce but so numerous. She didn't want to imagine those tunnels crawling with darkspawn during the Blight.

They were almost surprised to run into an ogre in a quiet, sealed-off room.

"They say ogres are the spawn of Qunari Brood Mothers," Anders told them afterwards.

Bethany shivered.

Another passageway led them straight into a dragon's lair. It remained unsaid among them, but they assailed the creature in a desperate fury as if it were a budding Archdemon.

They were trudging—their limbs heavy, their weapons cumbersome. Hawke surveyed the new passageway. To her, at that stage, it looked just like everything else they had passed: large, imposing, and decaying.

Varric's hands brushed over some kind of pillar—a carved obelisk-like structure. He gestured to them, urging them to keep up with him as he walked down a long, broad hall. Ahead, the doorway to what appeared to be oppressive darkness extended deeper than they could make out.

"Ah, here we go. This goes right where we want it to." He nodded.

"Should we forge ahead?" Hawke wondered.

"Let's go back and tell Bartrand." A smirk emerged on his lips. "He'll be so pleased," he added dryly.

"Are you sure? Don't you think he would be more likely to express mild revulsion as opposed to full on hatred of me if we returned decked out in glittering baubles?" she suggested archly.

"Who's fucking tired?" Varric raised his hand in answer to his own question. "If this leads to a primeval thaig, as everything here indicates it does, then we're going to need help. I'm not up for digging through rubble with my bare hands."

Hawke peered down quickly at her own cracked hands. She wiped a smear of blood from one of the cuts against her armor.

"We head back?" Bethany turned to look at the imposing stairs they had just climbed.

"Yeah." He could hear the exhaustion in his voice. "Let's just go back to camp. I can't… I know he has no fans here, but…He's still my brother. I have to…I can't just…" He stopped talking and took a deep breath. "He's part of this expedition. I can't go ahead without him. It's just not the right thing to do."

"Let's just go back." Anders led the way. His shoulders slumped forward and his discomfort was evident. "If we just go back the way we came, we should be fine."

"And it'll go faster. We won't have to battle our way back," Hawke concluded, sheathing her daggers.

Bethany pinched the bridge of her nose.

"Anders, do you have any mana potions left? I think I am running on fumes right now."

As he stepped closer to her, he offered her his arm.

"Here—let me help you back to camp."

"Keep that shtick up with my sister and you'll be the one returning to camp in a sling," Hawke grumbled.

When Anders shot her another one of his glares, she pointed shrewdly at her own eyes and to him again.

"Watch where you're going," she warned.

"Do you mean that figuratively or literally?" Anders sorted through the belongings of his pouch before pulling out a small vial and cracking the seal open for her.

"Thank you." Bethany took a swig and immediately appeared to revive.

* * *

The walk back was, in fact, going quicker than expected. They ran into a few deepstalkers that had been attracted by the corpses. They were runty, puny, and at the first sign of trouble, scurried back into the darkness. Those furious enough to attack succumbed to a few scorching spells or strikes from their blades and arrows.

It was only as they began to near the camp that Hawke allowed herself to let down her guard and admire the ruins again.

"It's such a shame…All this beauty, hidden away…" she mused as they passed a row of basalt golems that had veins of lyrium carved into their stone surfaces in mystifying runic designs.

Varric walked alongside her. His gaze remained fixed ahead, on Bethany and Anders' backs. Taking advantage of the fact they were too busy talking to each other, he reached for her hand and examined it.

"Look at this." He clucked his tongue softly. "You know what causes this?"

"The cold?"

He said nothing. He ran his thumb delicately over her raw, reddened skin.

"Is there such a thing as 'warrior's rash?" Or perhaps 'mercenary's blotches'?" She wished she could hide her mangled hand from him.

He raised her hand to his lips, kissing her bruised knuckles.

"Ah! Is this the recommended cure? Is this what you are saying I need?" She tried to be playful to mask how much she was enjoying his touch.

He shook his head.

"I wouldn't presume such a thing. It would be arrogant of me."

He grazed his lips over her fingers, planting another tender kiss upon them.

"But I do know that I would like to care for you—if you would only let me."

She fixed her gaze ahead, her heart racing, blinking at the glistening stone walls, the ceiling busting with cracked geodes, shimmering like a false starry sky.

 _I can't blame that Bianca for not wanting to let him go_ , she thought sadly.

"Varric!" Anders called, turning around abruptly.

Their hands quickly flew apart and their faces fell into contrived expressions of innocence.

"What?"

"Left or right?"

"The fuck should I know? Isn't there a little trail of darkspawn to follow?" An edge of annoyance emerged through his façade.

"Left," Bethany argued. "Look: that's the unfinished passageway filled with lyrium veins we took earlier."

"Oh, joy." Anders rolled his eyes and arched his back stiffly in evident pain.

Bethany cracked a winsome grin. "We're almost back at camp!"

Varric's touch lingered on her thoughts as she thought of his seductive offer.

They didn't dare any further indiscretions—not as both Anders and Bethany kept talking to them as they approached the camp.

She stared at Varric's reddish hair, the strong line of his jaw, and the light gold stubble on his cheek. His full lips were cocked in a half grin as he listened to Anders pontificate on the miseries of the Deep Roads. In his eyes was that observant spark—evidence that he did not miss anything. It was all so him, she thought, along with his wickedly sharp wit and raspy laughter…All characteristics of his that had become so dear to her.

He caught her staring and held her gaze. A twinge of delight coursed through her when she realized he seemed a little flustered at the discovery.

"See anything you like?" he challenged her flirtatiously.

She lowered her head and grinned. He sighed at her coyness.

"I just wish you'd charge into my arms as recklessly as you charge through these passageways," he revealed in a low voice.

"If I were to charge you, you would not be able to stand afterwards…" she teased.

"What? Don't think I can't handle it? Don't be afraid to bring it on: sometimes I like it a little rough," he provoked.

"Wait: what? You _do_?"Her mind flashed back to that night after the Viscount's party—Varric's hand gripping her hip firmly as he pulled her against him, full of want, his mouth hot against her skin, their breaths ragged, and his husky voice revealing an intensity that simply melted her: ' _Kiss me,'_ he'd commanded her. A little shiver coursed up her spine and her knees felt a bit weak as she imagined him telling her exactly what he wanted her to do to him in that same lusty voice. She must have looked pathetically dazed for a moment, for he burst out laughing and playfully checked into her.

 _Maker, I do love this man_ , she knew with an overwhelming certainty.

And it frightened her more than anything she had battled that day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Deep Roads mission in DAII always felt so draining to play...and on top of a general lack of free time, maybe that's the reason it's been taking me so long to write more of this fic. The Deep Roads are claustrophobic and repetitive. I felt a bit disoriented playing through them, every time, as I made interminable turns down similar-looking tunnels and passageways...But plotwise, the Deep Roads are gold. They are revealing and complex. They're a gift in the sense that they offer an opportunity to examine these characters in greater depth (look- a pun!) as they face incredible hardship and heartache. The good news(?): the next two chapters have been written and are on deck to be proofread. Thanks for hanging in there. <3


	22. Chapter 22

The expedition traveled down to the stone marker guarding the stairs to the ancient thaig. Even Bartrand, in all his infuriatingly dismissive glory, had to admit their clearing of the passageways had been impressive. He had only admitted it once they stumbled upon the slain dragon's carcass in one of the chambers. Best of all, though, was the completely unguarded look of astonishment on his face when they halted before a row of pillars running down a long hall.

"Holy shit." His expression registered utter surprise.

"Is this what you were expecting?" Hawke couldn't resist feeling a tad smug about their discovery.

"I thought…an abandoned thaig, something old, but…what is _this_?"

"How did you even know it was here?" She admired the lanterns shining their deep red glow on a seemingly never-ending stairwell.

"Old scavenger tales." Varric could discern in Bartrand's voice…What was it? Reverence? Wonder? "After the Third Blight. Far below the surface, they said, but nobody believed them."

It was impossible to see beyond the lanterns. An abyssal darkness shrouded the end of the hallway from view.

"Looks like they were right!" Varric's voice came out as strained even to his own ears, he realized, as he tried to rally his resolve to wander into Maker-knew-what.

 _A point of no return_. He shivered.

In the stories he read he could anticipate those turning points with ease: there were ample clues that something monumental or catastrophic would be happening to forever determine the course of the protagonists' lives. Some were obvious: eves of battles, formal rites of passage, and summons.

_And now, newly added to my list: Deep Roads expeditions into legendary thaigs._

He contemplated the possibility that they were committing a terrible mistake. Disturbing the dust of what was practically an ancient necropolis was the kind of rookie plot contrivance he scoffed and groaned at whenever he came across it in an otherwise swashbuckling adventure. Foolish and brash explorers tended to be unaware of a place's history, traditions, or taboos and blundered straight to their deaths. Whether by curse, demon, or—his personal favorite—shoddy construction collapsing, death was the expected punishment for sacrilege, ignorance, and above all, greed.

"But where are the statues of Paragons? I don't recognize these markings on the wall or anything in the rubble." Bartrand roamed through the antechamber noisily. Varric smirked in the gloom.

 _I never took you for an archaeologist. I never took you for someone who could read anything but ledgers and contracts_ , would have been his impertinent reply.

Normally.

Instead, he held his silence as a cold sweat broke over his brow. The air at that depth was stale and dry. It made the inside of his nose crackly while his throat burned as if coated with a thin film of gritty dust. To disguise his unease, he took a swig of water from his canteen. He was overwhelmed by a wild impulse to tell Bartrand that he was done—he had gone as far as he was willing to go. _Negotiate with him. Tell him we'll settle for a much smaller share. Call it a day._ Bartrand now had his helpers, porters, and security detail to usher him through safely. He, Hawke, and the others were not necessary to his success. Bartrand could boast about his successful venture all he wanted when he returned to Kirkwall. He could mock and ridicule him for his trepidation before the unknown. It would be all right. _I'll be fine_ , he surmised—he had never needed much and anything he gained from that adventure would be more than he had now.

And then there was Hawke to consider. His trusting and good-natured Hawke. She was there because he had told her what a brilliant opportunity the expedition was. And she had believed him. Unquestioningly. His assertions were good enough for her. She had placed all her faith in him. Hell, even her life.

 _Turn around. Leave this place. Go back. Take them all back home._ The presentiment he'd been harboring only grew stronger as he stared at the long hall.

She'd be all right, he reassured himself. He'd take care of things for her, as long as she allowed it.

In those books he read, such moments of teetering indecision, such a back-and-forth of the will, were passages he shook his head at. _The signs are all there!_ He'd realize in frustration as the characters moved towards their doom.

_Ah, idiots. Ignore all the indications that this is a bad idea._

The insult was directed at both the characters and their authors, who created such situations for the sake of cheap entertainment. Now, as he thought about it, the characters really weren't that idiotic. It was the authors who had committed a grave mistake. They had failed to seize upon the ambiguity and the duality of certain choices. The fog and mirrors of one's own mind could shift the perception of events. It was a mental sleight of hand: was that moment a once-in-a-lifetime-opportunity or a terrible, disastrous mistake?

 _Which would it be?_ he agonized. Hawke stood expectantly, awaiting a sign from him. She, he realized, had no doubts their venture would be successful.

There was only one way to find out whether or not they would reap any rewards, he decided: in books he had had to read on. In his own stories, he had had to write onwards to see what iteration of possibilities made the most impact. But in real life? In life there was only one sure-proof way to find out: they had to forge ahead.

* * *

 _Can one refer to a "landscape" when wandering through somewhere so far beneath the earth_? Hawke wondered.

Hawke had agreed to scout the entrance to the thaig, eager to get away from Bartrand's abrasiveness. With Bethany, Anders, and Varric she was at ease. She never understood the idea of "safety in numbers."

_There is safety in skill; everything else is plain luck._

With her small party she knew she was among capable fighters. She did not have to worry about them. She had seen the looks of sheer terror on some of the porters' faces as they wandered down deeper into the tunnels and found the carcasses of darkspawn along the way. She needed to focus and fight. She didn't want to have to worry about defending hapless porters who, due to the size of their expedition, were very likely to be picked off with ease, dragged down those tunnels…and then, whatever unspeakable horrors occurred to the unfortunate who were not immediately slain. The rest of the expedition could wait safely outside that thaig's gates.

Hell, it was an amazing adventure, nevertheless. She had never glimpsed anything similar to that otherworldly sight. From piles of collapsed rock grew gem-red veins. They burst up from the rock, crowding out the blue lyrium like horns of coral. Spidery dendrites unfurled towards the ceiling.

She was probably the first human to set eyes on such a primordial ruin.

 _Red_ , she marveled. _It's as if we are at the beating heart of the mountain_ , she imagined fancifully.

* * *

The lights grew dimmer until they found themselves in almost complete darkness. Some lyrium veins snaking across the surface of the ceiling weakly lit the path ahead. The group moved together in expectant silence.

A wide breach in the rock wall revealed an entryway flooded in dazzling red light.

"Hmm…" Varric approached the entryway uneasily. "Whatever's through there, it seems still intact. Think we'll find anything?"

Hawke pursed her lips at him.

"Bartrand is far more enthralled with this place than you are!"

"Unlike him, I wasn't born in Orzammar. I wouldn't even be down here if there wasn't any profit in it," he grumbled. "This entire place gives me the chills," he admitted. He heaved a deep breath. "Let's hope it's worth it."

"If it helps, I should let you know I can't sense any darkspawn close by." Anders leaned in closer to them. "That's always a good sign."

"At this point, we have very low expectations," Bethany added, causing Hawke to chuckle.

"That's going to be my new standard of excellence: if there is no darkspawn, it's good!" Hawke decided. "Hemming! This is a fine stew, my good man! There's no darkspawn in it!"

Varric snorted.

"You know, sometimes, with his cooking…I wonder." He unslung Bianca from the leather strap across his torso. "Come on."

* * *

"Anders, you're fired." Hawke wiped her forehead with her arm.

"What? This is ludicrous! You can't hold that against me! I'm a Grey Warden! I detect darkspawn, not demonic shades or stone golems!"

Hulking shades had burst up from the ground, triggered by their approach, disturbed from a slumber centuries old. They moved fluidly, gliding over the ground. The stone golem had been more difficult to defeat. Arrows and blades did nothing to its exterior. Anders and Bethany had worn it down with explosions and targeted bursts of ice while she and Varric provided a distraction.

Varric began to tinker busily with a chest's lock. He was determined to discover what the shades had been guarding for so long. After some strategic prodding of his trusty picks, the old crusty lock cracked open.

"Oo! What did we get?" Hawke tried to perch over his shoulder to glimpse inside.

 _Black silk_ , Varric noticed. Only thin, frayed ribbons remained. The rest had deteriorated badly over the years. Inside, at the center of the chest, sitting intact, was a ring.

"Treasure!" Hawke announced excitedly. Varric fished it out carefully with one of his longer picks and held it before them.

The ring was ornately carved with etchings of what looked like willowy tree branches braiding around its span. If he had to guess, he would say it was made of some kind of fossilized bone, he determined.

"Look at that!" Bethany pointed. "There's the drawing of a tree on it."

"I think it's elvhen," Anders observed as he tilted his head sideways. "And it's very old. That's a Vhenadahl."

"The branches almost remind me of the lyrium veins we've been seeing." Hawke was enthralled by the artfully carved artifact.

Varric gave them all a peevish glare.

"What is this? Are you all nuts? Are you thinking this is some Chantry fieldtrip?" He tipped the pick over the edge of the box allowing the ring to sink back into its silken depths. "Think about it: a solitary ring in a decaying box…guarded by shades and a stone golem. I'm thinking there's a very good reason for such precaution!"

Hawke turned to her sister.

"Bethany, do you remember the seneschal who conducted the visit to the Bann's armory in Rainsefere?" She grinned, fishing for the old memory. "Don't touch anything!" she declaimed with a comical sternness.

"I'm glad I amuse you." He had no interest in finding out whether the ring had any 'interesting' properties. He slammed the lid shut and began to walk ahead.

"Oh, Maker—that was so long ago! I remember you kept asking him, 'May I touch my nose? And what about my sister's nose? How about your nose?' I think you convinced the man never to procreate."

"Too bad—that was one codger who needed a good roll in the hay."

"I laughed so hard that afternoon, my stomach ached," Bethany recalled.

"Mother, alas, was not nearly as amused when they told her I was no longer welcome at their fine establishment." She turned to Varric. "And why is it that one of the essential qualities one must have to become a seneschal is be a giant turd?"

"All right, members of the Art Appreciator's guild, follow me this way!" Varric jabbed, ceremoniously indicating another unfinished passageway.

* * *

The massive door with reinforced strips of metal creaked heavily on its rusted hinges. It led to, they noted with groans of displeasure, yet another stairwell. That room, however, was different from the others. It was bathed in a luminous red glow.

"What is this place?" Anders stopped before the staircase in awe.

Varric squinted.

"Up there: a pedestal of some kind."

"Anders, you better hope there are no shades, no golems, no nothing hiding behind that damned pedestal," Hawke threatened.

"And how again is that my fault?" he protested.

The air around them swirled while they ascended, as if charged. Just as they reached the landing, a radiant flash of red shot up from the surface of the pedestal. They hesitated, wary of approaching and stirring something malevolent from a deep sleep. Further examination, though, revealed that the lightly pulsing glint was coming from something small. It was some kind of artifact. The first thing that came to her mind was that it resembled a ringed door knocker or a similarly-shaped object.

 _A fancy door knocker_ , she thought giddily.

"You see what I'm seeing?" Varric halted before the pedestal in amazement.

"Is that…lyrium?" Hawke approached it as well, curious.

"It's definitely magic. And not the good kind." Anders warned them, hanging back.

Varric grimaced.

"Doesn't look like any kind of lyrium I've ever seen."

Footsteps echoed behind them, approaching the stairwell at a steady pace. Bartrand emerged at the entrance, his boots clicking noisily over the polished stone floor.

Varric grinned, pleased, as he slung Bianca over his back once more.

"Look at this, Bartrand! An idol made out of pure lyrium." He glanced quickly at the object lying there so solemnly, left behind for whatever reason, intact, despite the series of disasters that must have struck that House since its initial fall. "I think," he admitted, suddenly unsure. "Could be worth a fortune!"

Bartrand let out a low whistle, his eyes fixed on the pedestal.

"You could be right. Excellent find," Bartrand congratulated him.

Hawke reached for the idol and a surge of energy coursed over her as she did. The red glow emanated more brightly as it came into contact with her skin, momentarily blinding her.

She was convinced, if only for a few seconds, that she heard an eerie, dissonant melody just before she whisked it off the pedestal. She admired the strange artifact with a mystified fascination, even though it was a frighteningly ugly thing.

"Not bad. We'll take a look around." Varric was talking, but she found herself distracted, absorbed in the idol. It glinted so beautifully. At first, the noise she perceived behind Varric's voice sounded like waves—it had that same soothing rumble— until she realized there were actually voices—many— declaiming words in soft, hushed tones. She understood nothing they said. Their words were ancient, unintelligible to her, but she found them very lovely and sad in the way only things long lost and forgotten are. She almost shushed her companions as she strained to listen to the evocative melody.

 _Hypnotic_.

She wanted to stay there and listen, listen until she could understand the strange, soothing words. They filled her with a peculiar longing, a nameless comfort…

"…see if there 's anything further in," Varric was still addressing them.

At the sound of his deep voice, her head sprang up.

Hawke found herself eerily disoriented. She blinked a few times until Varric's face came into focus.

 _No_ , she thought, gathering herself. _I don't want any part of this thing._

"Here." She extended her hand, offering Varric the idol. He smiled at her, pleased, and without greater inspection, flung it down into Bartrand's eager hands.

Even in the confused state she found herself in, she could tell, as they began to rummage about the room, that Bartrand was held in thrall. She glimpsed the gleam emanating from the idol in his light blue eyes. They were glazed and enrapt.

 _I wonder if he can hear it_ , she wondered, remembering the stirring, dark song with a fleeting pang of envy.

"We'll check back in here." Varric peered around a corner in the room.

"You do that," Bartrand called back in a cool, emotionless manner.

He moved slowly but purposefully towards the entrance, his eyes never straying from the glittering idol. As he slipped out of the room, Hawke noticed the door begin to swing shut.

"The door!" she shouted, dashing down the steps in what she realized was a futile effort to keep it from shutting them inside. Varric ran down behind her, cursing under his breath.

"Bartrand!" Varric yelled, annoyed. "It's shut behind you!"

They all pounded on the door loudly with their fists, rattling it.

Yet, there was no clicking to indicate the lock outside had been turned. They continued knocking and calling out to him.

Hawke was assailed by a sickening foreboding. She dropped her hands and stepped away from the door.

That had been no accident.

* * *

"Bartrand!" Varric called out, still hopeful. He couldn't have gone that far.

A chilling laugh reached them.

"You always did notice everything, Varric."

Varric rolled his eyes and continued staring at the door, expectantly. _Just open the door. We're not amused, you prick._ Bartrand's sense of humor left much to be desired, and was, to be quite frank, more like bullying and gratuitous provocation.

The door remained firmly shut. He slammed his splayed hands against the door with all his might.

"Are you _joking_?" he roared in disbelief. "You're going to screw over your own _brother_ for a lousy idol?" His heart was racing. _This has to be the nadir of all your piss-poor pranks, Bartrand. Open the fucking door!_ he raged in his head.

"It's not just the idol. The location of this thaig alone is worth a fortune, and I'm not splitting that three ways." In Bartrand's voice was a cold scorn he recognized, but never imagined would be directed against him.

He felt his stomach sink.

"Sorry, _Brother_ ," Bartrand issued sarcastically as the footsteps grew more distant. Varric held his breath, waiting for the next sound: returning footsteps. He was sure he would find Bartrand standing before them with a pleased, imbecilic self-congratulatory grin over his tasteless joke.

They remained in that position, crowded around the door for a sickening few minutes.

Varric ventured a glance at Hawke and a dark realization crossed over his face as terror seized him.

"Bartrand!" He cried at the top of his lungs. "Bartrand!"

Nothing but the sound of his voice echoed back to them.

 _What have you done?_ he despaired.

_What have I done?_

* * *

Hawke was helpless before the pain in Varric's eyes. She attempted to place a placating hand over his shoulder, not sure if it was reassuring at all in view of that fresh disaster.

He shook her hand off, obviously upset, whirling around to face her.

"I swear: I will find that son of a bitch—sorry, Mother." He turned his eyes up to the ceiling. "And I will kill him!" He clenched his fists angrily.

Confronted by stunned stares all around him, he exhaled slowly.

_Focus._

"Let's hope there's a way out of here."

His mind was racing. _How could I have been caught so off guard? How did I not see this coming?_

"Listen: if there's a way out, we'll find it," Hawke assured him calmly. "And if there isn't…" She glanced around the room. "We'll make one."

 _That's right_ , he realized, as they continued probing the room. If there was anyone he wanted to be trapped in a secret chamber in a forgotten thaig in the Deep Roads with, it had to be Hawke. With her, the odds they would make it out were starting to look pretty good. Just because she let him see her vulnerabilities did not mean she did not have strengths.

_And not just strengths: formidable strengths._

So many times before she had handled the most desperate, dire situations with a tenacity, defiance, and ingenuity that amazed him. He was almost ashamed of his momentary hopelessness.

Anders had been tapping his staff along the wall, listening intently. As he hit the base of his staff along a segment of the wall, they perceived a noticeably hollow sound.

"I think I found something!" He raised the staff again.

"And I feel a draft right here!" Bethany leaned against the wall near where Anders was knocking.

"Of course. There would be a hidden doorway. I'm not the first dwarf to be screwed over because of riches. Bartrand was right about one thing: very little has changed since ancient times." He gritted his teeth.

* * *

Hawke fought the shade as wisps of dark mist collected like stringy webs over her skin. She plunged her dagger into the creature's chest.

Shades were somewhere between material and ethereal. With spirits or demons, she had to trust what she knew, not necessarily what she felt. By that stage, she had fought demons sufficiently to know that plunging a dagger into them was nothing like stabbing real flesh. Whatever bound them together swirled beneath murky layers of thick smoke. Nicking or grazing them only stirred their vaporous shapes for a moment. To destroy them, it was necessary to drive a blade deep, until it struck and disrupted their cores.

Then they unraveled.

 _Surrender the ghost_ , she thought. _Quite literally, at that._

The demon sputtered, disintegrating after her forceful hit. She hastily wiped her hand over her leathers. Her eyes remained steely and focused.

 _Next_ , she thought, deftly twirling the hilts of her daggers.

A giant bruise had begun to bloom over her collarbone. A stone golem under a guarding spell had sprung to life as they crossed the expanse of an abandoned room. Anders and Bethany had alternated freezing spells so that Hawke and Varric could chip away at it. It had managed to break out of the binding spell once, though, and rammed its fist into Hawke. She had swerved in time, or the hit would have landed on her neck, instead.

At times like that she drowned everything but the essentials out. When she engaged in combat, nothing else mattered until it was over.

She had never learned to dance or do any of the carefree things people did when they were young, but each duel was, in its own terribly beautiful way, an intimate dance of its own. It required that she lavish complete and undivided focus on an adversary. It was no less intense than that bond between lovers and demanded an absolute understanding of movement, of deciphering the timing cues of when to lunge or retreat. Eyes gazed and roved over another's body in anticipation, beholding the intended target with an all-consuming intensity.

The old proverb held true: love and hate were two different faces of the same coin.

At those decisive moments, she was pure will incarnate, making no distinctions between her body and her mind.

Her collarbone throbbed, but the pain was a faint echo in the distance she was able to muffle. In her ears blood thrummed, a drumbeat keeping time, dictating rhythm.

"Hawke!" A warning.

A circle of inky smoke erupted over the ground and another shade materialized beside her.

She performed the steps perfectly. Thought and action merged: a step back, daggers rising and then crossing over the barely formed figure. A glint of silver flashed over the cloudy torso.

The shade wilted, curling within itself, resembling a smoldering strip of parchment.

Her eyes scanned the room for new motion, another partner.

The daggers flashed and twirled again in her hands—a battle tic she had developed long ago.

 _Next_.

* * *

Hawke could sense their party's dismay when yet another room led further down into the mountain's unfathomable depths rather than up towards the surface. What did it mean that they hadn't encountered any darkspawn in that desolate crypt? They fought wave after wave of shades and demons.

"Anders, how many flasks of mana are left?" Bethany leaned exhaustedly against a wall.

"Luckily, I restocked at the camp before we ended down here." He paused and glanced surreptitiously at Hawke, as if expecting her to interrupt.

Perhaps he expected her to assail him with one of her usual rebukes.

 _I have nothing_ , Hawke thought, grimacing from the aches radiating through her body.

"We have four more," he determined.

"All right. Two for each. I'll have to pace myself better."

Anders handed her three flasks instead of two.

"You can have these. I don't think I'll need as many." He eyed her curiously. "Are you not feeling well?"

Bethany cracked a flask open and downed almost half of the lyrium.

"I'll feel much better now, thank you. I don't know if it's the depths and feeling somewhat claustrophobic…I just feel my energy draining much faster than normal."

One glance at Varric and Hawke's heart sank.

He sat on the steps, dejectedly, staring intently at the ground. She could guess at his turmoil. She knew his urgency in getting them out of there had to do with a need to intercept and confront Bartrand—of at least returning to Kirkwall before his brother, in order to thwart any other nefarious plots.

When they had stopped, earlier, he had quietly apologized to her.

"Believe me, I never imagined him capable of—"

"I know," she assured him sincerely.

"Hawke, I'm sorry. I'm so very sorry I got us all into this fucking mess." He rubbed his temples tiredly, closing his eyes. "When we return to Kirkwall, you will be all right. Even if this shit show is a complete waste. You will be fine: I promise. Your financial affairs can't be touched by Bar—"

"What about you? Are you going to be fine?"

He opened his eyes, a troubled expression on his face.

"I don't want to imagine what surprises Bartrand will have lying in wait for me when we return."

"Like what?"

"Assassins. All kinds of injunctions on my accounts." He raised his honey-colored eyes to her. "Honestly— I don't know. This is completely unexpected and unforeseen. All bets are off."

Nothing she had to say then would make things right. Telling him to have courage, not to give up…Everything would come out sounding like a tired platitude. Instead, she sat beside him quietly.

 _How does he always do it?_ she thought. _What does he do at such times, when my spirit is low, when everything seems to be falling apart?_ She raised her hand and let it glide over his sleeve. At first he stiffened, but once her fingers coursed down his arm and over his glove, their fingers laced firmly together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some dialogue directly from the game (a bit adapted in some cases)- mainly Bartrand's reactions to the thaig, the whole conversation upon finding the idol, Bartrand's betrayal and some of Varric's fury afterwards.


	23. Chapter 23

The red root-like veins of red lyrium contrasted brightly with the hushed, cold hues of the crypt. Mesmerizing and fascinating, it crackled when they passed, giving off a stronger glow anytime they were in proximity.

"Photosensitive?" Varric stared at them.

"Perhaps. Definitely not photophobic!" Anders moved before one deliberately. "See that? It simply shimmers."

"Anyone else feel lightheaded?" Hawke squeezed her eyes and reopened them widely, blinking.

"A little. How long have we been down here anyway?" Bethany looked around. As she walked past the threshold, the air wavered in a way they had learned to recognize.

"More shades!" Anders cried out to them.

Everything in Hawke's body screamed for an end to all that combat. Her limbs felt leaden.

_No time for complaining. Not now._

She remembered the old saying.

"I can rest when I am dead."

 _Next_ , she thought, reaching for her trusty daggers.

* * *

A forest of shades. Her blades were nimble, but for that fight she had had to rely on a sword. She swung it in a precise arc, cutting a smoky swath among the shadowy beings, severing whatever cores grounded and connected them to that plane. Hawke had not failed to notice that their party had managed to travel even deeper into the mountain. The eeriness and otherworldliness of their surroundings seemed to rival even the Fade.

_Or perhaps, we have already died and this is hell?_

She glanced at Varric. He wore a hard, defiant look over his rugged features as he loaded Bianca up for their next round.

"Watch out!" Bethany shouted just as searing pain pierced Hawke's arm. She gasped, clasping it tightly, managing to duck for cover behind a column as she struggled to understand what was happening. She peered out cautiously to see what had attacked her.

Large stone beings had emerged from the dark cave ground to confront them.

_Stone wraiths?_

Their bodies consisted of hunks of stone connected by filaments of radiant golden light. She could make out the glowing outline of a spine and even a rib cage.

 _That's it_ , she thought shrewdly. _Avoid the massively swinging stone pylons that are their arms and disrupt the magic energy._

"Cover me!" she ordered, choosing her sword for the task. Reach would be of the essence. When she stepped forward, her body protested vehemently with a burst of pain.

 _This isn't a choice,_ she argued with herself _. There will be time for complaining later, if we ever make it to 'later'._ She bent her legs slightly, ready to sprint towards the creatures blocking their way.

"Aim for their cores," Hawke instructed them as she dashed from behind the column, her sword ready.

* * *

"Enough," the deep, heavy voice commanded them as if awakening from a lingering primordial sleep. Scattered stones on the ground shook, rolled, and flew before their eyes as if attracted to a pulsating point of light. A large figure, similar to the ones they had just fought, emerged before them. Its head resembled a cracked skull—the broken edges jagged and rough. "You have proven your mettle. I would not see these creatures harmed without need."

Her skin throbbed where the fiery bolt had struck her earlier and she rubbed it in an effort to soothe it away. _Without need? The fuck?_

"I'd say being attacked on sight gives it plenty of 'need'!" she emphasized sarcastically.

The light crackled between fissures in the stone as the being addressed them.

"They will not assault you further, not without my permission."

It remained still, imposing, the light pulsing as if the creature were breathing.

"What are these things?" Varric contemplated it wild-eyed. "They seem like rock wraiths, but…"

"They hunger." The creature's hollow eye socket faced him. "The profane have lingered in this place for ages beyond memory, feeding on the magic stones until need is all they know."

They peered around the great somber hall noticing the great spirals of red lyrium winding around columns, like serpentine vines.

"The lyrium?" Hawke wondered aloud. "That's what sustains them?"

"I am not as they are. I am…a visitor."

 _Visitor my ass_ , Hawke frowned. She sought Anders' face in the gloominess.

"It seems mostly interested in their hunger. It's a _demon_ , come to feed," Anders revealed pointedly.

"I would not see my feast end," was all the being retorted.

The skull turned until the eerie hollow socket faced her.

"I sense your desire." She stiffened at its voice. "You seek to leave this place, but you will need my aid to do so."

"Don't do it." Anders clasped his staff nervously. "Demons will trip you up every time."

"Be careful," Bethany concurred. "I don't like the sound of this."

Varric looked at her, shrugging.

"What are our options?" He rubbed his hand over his forehead.

Hawke squinted and faced the demon.

"Why do we need your aid to leave?"

"There is another door that leads into the paths far above us. That is what you seek. It has been sealed, however, and cannot be opened without a key." Hawke stared at the cracked rock skull. "I know where the key is. Do as I ask, and I shall tell you."

Varric shifted, crossing his arms.

"Hmph. So what do you think?"

She knew him well enough to understand that was a rhetorical question. His smirk was confirmation of everything she was thinking.

* * *

It was shortly after a mission they'd undertaken to search for a templar's missing daughter. The whole mission had consisted of a series of lies and convenient omissions and plenty of pussyfooting on their contact's side that had pissed her off to no end. When they had finally found the young woman, a mage no less, she was beyond distraught—threated by Templar bullies, she succumbed, right before their eyes. She was consumed by demonic energy and wrath, tragically believing she could draw strength from the Fade to fight her way out. Instead, she became a conduit for demonic entities. She'd died, of course—they'd had to cut her down the moment she became possessed. They'd had to make short order of the harassing Templars as well, and the whole evening concluded with her having to give an aged, aggrieved father the sort of news no parent should ever have to bear.

She'd hit the bar at the Hanged Man extra hard that night, guzzling her drinks down recklessly. It was Varric who'd steered her up the flight of stairs to his rooms, guided her through the door, helped her out of her boots and armor and offered her cup after cup of water even as she fired off a slurring tirade. At some point she must have collapsed in an incoherent heap because she remembered waking up facedown on his bed, sprawled across the coverlet, her feet hanging off the side. She had winced at the low throbbing in her head and parched throat. All was dim in the room, but from the sitting room a warm fire roared. Once she managed to hobble to the bedroom's wide doorway, she found him sitting down at his large table, the usual assortment of tomes spread out around him, his cheek resting over his fist as he dunked his quill into an inkwell. She had stared for a while, resting her shoulder against the wall while he scratched the surface of his parchment with tight and neat loops as he quickly jotted down his thoughts. At one point he raised his warm light brown eyes to her and even then, so early on in their friendship, she had felt a small flutter in her chest.

"Hey— how are you feeling?"

"Did you catch the name of the dragon that landed on me?" she joked, pulling out a chair across from him.

"No…but you were certainly spewing some fire yourself earlier on."

"I'm actually quite articulate when drunk," she explained, sniffing.

"A semantic maven, for sure!" He grinned. "I might have to credit you in my next story— such colorful, dazzling cursing!"

He'd pushed a cup of water towards her and she had gratefully guzzled it down. They remained in a comfortable silence for a while—she, nursing another cup of water as his quill dashed across the parchment.

"What are you writing?" Her eyes tried to decipher the upside-down letters.

"Just some thoughts. Sometimes, after coming back from our missions, I find that the only way I can settle my mind is by teasing out some ideas until I can piece together a story."

"Does it help?" She rested her elbows over the table.

"Sometimes," he admitted.

"Can I read something?" She peered at the small pile of pages stacked between the open covers of a large folio. He glanced up, bewildered.

"Really?"

"Yeah!" She stated encouragingly.

He seemed to freeze in place.

"I don't have anything ready yet," he admitted. "I don't usually share these—it's just a hobby, just for fun."

"I like to read. I had a lot of books back in Lothering. My father had a respectable library, even for an apostate mage always on the run. And we had to lug it along with us or have it shipped to a trusted address anytime we picked up and ran. It was the one stubborn luxury he insisted upon." She'd tapped the table. "Come on, Tethras. Entertain me! Be a good host," she joked.

"All right…But…" He stared at her, his panicked expression softening at her expectant look. "Okay. Let me just go over…None of this is edited. Let me find something I can share." She found it endearing how her request had stirred him up, excited him. "Give me a little time to choose something," he requested finally.

"Fine." She sighed as he shuffled through his papers, glancing over different pages, quickly stashing them away with groans after perusing through them.

"Does writing…Does it help you?" she asked after a moment. He shrugged.

"I suppose it does. It forces me to slow down and make sense of things. It's what works for me, anyways."

She reached for a sheet of blank parchment and grabbed a quill from the small case lying on the table.

"While you are sorting out your stuff over there, I'm going to try my hand at writing something," she decided.

"Oh?" He grinned at her, amused. "And what will you be writing about?"

"A treatise on demons."

"A treatise," he echoed. "Not a drabble, short story, or poem. Going straight for an indigestible treatise?"

"Go big or go home." She shook her quill feigning professorial haughtiness.

"This I'll definitely want to read. Go ahead, don't let me interrupt you." He chuckled.

She leaned over her crisp sheet of parchment and ran her fingertips over the smooth surface. She peered up surreptitiously at Varric and found his eyes watching her, a mischievous gleam in his eyes.

They both burst out laughing.

"Chapter one!" she began, raking the sharp tip of the quill over the parchment. "How to Deal with Demons."

"Ooh, very catchy."

"It's a short chapter," she revealed. She focused again on the parchment. "Dealing with Demons: you don't. You simply don't. There is no winning with demons. They seize upon your fears and weaknesses and exploit them. And then you die. And then those you love die. Even your greatest love dies…" She paused, dramatically. "I'm referring of course, to one's mabari," she concluded somberly. She contemplated her work and nodded, satisfied. "The end."

Varric clapped approvingly.

"Brava!" he cheered. "An instant classic."

She bowed her head in fake modesty.

"Wait, wait: there's more," she decided, enjoying their silliness.

"A sequel? Already?" he asked delightedly.

"Sheesh—no, man! This is a serious, academic tome," she explained. "This is an _appendix_ ," she clarified. Again, with theatrical focus, she turned back to her parchment. "Appendix one!" she announced. "How to Identify a Demon."

She began scribbling a terribly childish sketch of a large demon over the page. At one point, she drew an arrow at it labeled 'Fire Demon'. Varric had leaned over the table and was watching her, enthralled by her sudden creative impulse. Suddenly peeved at something in her picture, she quickly crossed out her label and wrote instead, in capital letters: 'FUCKER!'

"Die, fucker, die!" she growled, scribbling over her demon in thick strokes, finally resorting to stabbing it with the quill tip. She lost herself for a moment drawing bolts of electricity and arrows into the demon, even resorting to providing her own combat sounds. She didn't realize she had gotten so involved in her little combat scene until she heard Varric roar with laughter as she furiously drew a crude picture of a dick over the demon.

"Now he's definitely dead!" Varric snorted. She blinked back at him, a bit surprised at herself. "Now that…That was something else."

"I suppose this writing stuff isn't for me." She stared down at the picture sheepishly.

"You'd be a hit in Orlais." He patted her arm reassuringly. "They do these presentations— _performance artistique_ , they call it. Artists actually encourage the audience to interact with them and their work—it's very interesting, thought-provoking, and I am sure a great number of artistically visionary sons and daughters have been disowned in the process."

"I admit it was cathartic." She began to crumple the sheet, raising it towards the fire.

"No!" he cried.

She startled, holding the sheet midair.

"I'd like to keep it!"

"Why?" She shook her head in surprise.

"I might need to refer to it," he stated with comical gravitas. He plucked it from her hands and smoothed out the wrinkles over the table. "This is a very fine, scholarly work…"

They both laughed again, her heart and spirit lighter.

* * *

"I'll give it my answer!" Hawke declared, stepping forward, her arm cocked back before it sprung forward, ramming her fist into the hollow socket in the demon's skull.

The demon stumbled back before crying out, "Foolish!"

An arrow whizzed past her and knocked one of the stones from its skeletal structure. The creature reeled back in surprise.

Varric focused on the demon, aiming assuredly, one eye shut as he aimed his next shot. Behind them a nauseating wave of blackness undulated towards them. More demonic shades, summoned to slay them.

Hawke bared her teeth.

"DIE!" she roared, pushing past their astonished group, channeling all her pain into her battle charge.

* * *

It had been too easy, she'd noted suspiciously, as they moved passed the demon, extinguishing his spark and culling the shades he'd summoned. They had battled, tooth and nail all the way down to a dank cave where Hawke's suspicions proved correct. In the cave, at the end of what felt like infinite chambers, halls, and tunnels, rope-like coils of red lyrium clung to the stone, pulsating wildly.

"What's happening?" Bethany panicked.

"The demon," Anders stated flatly.

"We trounced him way back!" Varric raised Bianca, ready to shoot.

Whatever the entity was, it hadn't died, Hawke understood. And somehow, she suspected the strange red lyrium was responsible for that unexpected turn of events. She had barely formed the thought when the air wavered at the center of the room, and a red burst drew boulders from around the room towards a crackling, sparking red core.

"Watch out!" Hawke shouted as the rocks flew overhead. _A gigantic red core_ , she saw, her heart sinking. She staggered to the side, her hands bloodied, her chest heaving.

_This is it._

A giant stone wraith rose before them, its red ribs blazing.

"Bethany, don't engage it—shield me," she decided. "And Anders, assail it with electricity." She glanced towards the thrumming center. "Do anything that will disrupt its ability to remain whole."

She peered at Varric.

"I need you to keep firing at those red lyrium veins around it with whatever you've got."

"I'm running low on heavier headed arrows," he told her. "But I'll smash them with rocks, if I have to."

"Yeah. Shoot pebbles if you have to, but don't stop attacking the red stuff" she ordered him.

"You're going to take it on alone?" He balked.

"Hardly. You nice people stay on top of what I asked and this will be over—" She was interrupted by a heavy tremor that shook the cave precariously as the demonic entity began to storm towards them. "Fuck," she groaned. She inhaled deeply. "GO!"

* * *

She was right, Varric marveled. When the first vein of red lyrium collapsed, its light fading as it a withered into an ashen vine, the entity had been forced to retreat. He noticed it appeared to regroup, rearranging itself around the glowing core. It had to be drawing energy from the nearby veins.

_What the hell is this stuff?_

Hawke taunted the creature, keeping it distracted, engaged, Bethany's barriers barely surviving the onslaught of gigantic stone fists crashing over her. Anders caused the creature to convulse with each jolt from his barrage of electricity, sparks of white light colliding with the deep red.

Varric frantically attacked the veins, at one point mashing rocks against them and kicking their base with his boots. It was a terrible thing—he was convinced that with each strike, he heard piercing shrieks. He steeled his resolve and struck harder.

It was unlike anything he had ever experienced.

 _I better survive this, so I can tell one heck of a story!_ he thought angrily, bashing the surface of another vein, watching it glow wildly, intermittently, before slowly waning to low, dying glimmer. He peeked over his shoulder to catch Hawke prancing before the demon, mindful of the distance between them, her feet alternating between lunges and retreats. " _We_ better survive this," he quickly amended, raising a small boulder with urgency to the next crystalline vein.

* * *

"Find shelter! NOW!" she shouted as tremors swept through the room, the red light from the demon's core expanding. They all scurried and dove behind columns of stone, and piles of boulders as the explosion burst through the cave. Red light flooded the room for what Hawke would have imagined was a minute or so before collapsing within itself.

A cloud of dust slowly settled around them. Debris was still raining over them when Hawke raised her head from beneath her sheltering, folded arms.

"Everyone still with me?" she called out, hoarsely.

"Aye!" they all called back. She rolled onto her back, eyes squeezed shut.

_We just might make it._

She snorted lightly.

_I'll be damned. We might just pull this off._

She blinked back the hot tears as she forced herself to sit up and examine the devastation in the cave.

Miraculously, still relatively unblocked, the passageway leading out of the cave beckoned.

She noted, with a surge of hope, that for once, the path led upwards.

* * *

"Oof," Varric complained as they made their way up. "The rock wraiths are supposed to be dwarven legends. They're not even supposed to be real!"

"They looked pretty real to me," she muttered, trying to conceal a limp. "But remember: demons! They'll seize what's in our minds and take the shape of our fears. Anders!" she called out. "What do you think came first? Demons or fears?"

Anders, despite his evident exhaustion, managed a weak grin.

"Now that is a supremely interesting question. One I will gladly indulge when I succeed in tucking my entrails back in place."

They came at an abrupt halt before an expansive chamber.

At first, Varric thought it was an illusion. They all stared and gaped at the piles of glinting gold and chests upon chests of assorted treasures.

"I suppose it doesn't matter!" An edge of disbelief still clung to his voice. "Look at what it was guarding!"

Hawke stepped onto the pool of coins.

"Let's see if there is something that can help us get out of here! Spread out," she suggested, cracking open a chest and appreciating the irony of her disappointment at finding it filled to the brim with gems only.

* * *

Varric gazed around the vault in amazement. There were riches there beyond his wildest dreams. He struggled to open a lock to a smaller chest.

"What is this place?" Anders settled on a torn sack of gold.

"Treasury," Varric muttered between gritted teeth as he shimmied the pick deeper into the lock. "Old dwarven thaigs had one room dedicated to storing a family's riches. Wealthier houses in Orzammar still do." The pick finally broke and he tossed the other pick on the ground, cursing softly beneath his breath and sitting back on his heels. "I think I know where we are," he told them. "There are stories…Old stories about the ancient thaigs." He reached in his pocket for another pick. "I never imagined any of these could be real. I thought there were just…disasters that end up reworked to convey a moral, cautionary tale. I never actually believed…" He took in the grand room again. "Valdasine," he uttered to them.

Hawke sat with her back against the wall. She was dirty, sweaty, and exhausted. She drank from her canteen, her eyes closed, but still attentive.

"What is the story behind that?"

"House Valdasine…one of the greatest. It, alone, supplied the entire dwarven empire with lyrium for years and years."

Hawke opened one eye.

"But?"

"One day the lyrium stopped. Just like that. The thaig's doors were barred shut and no one—not patrons, the king, or even a Paragon who visited the thaig, succeeded in luring them from hiding. Nothing. Apparently this went on for a while…Until one day the doors opened. Their partners, who lay in wait, rushed in. But they found nothing. Not even a lowly servant. Not one body. Nothing indicating any signs of violence. Just silence. They called for the king, who actually inspected the thaig. Accounts here conflict. Some say he found an ornate staff made of unknown metal. It is said that merely touching it brought one immense sorrow."

Hawke continued listening, the canteen held still over her lips.

"It was creepy enough that the king ordered that everything be left untouched and ordered the thaig sealed, with strict orders that it was never to be breeched again."

"Fuck," Hawke muttered in a whisper. "Do you think…the idol we found?"

Varric grimaced.

"I don't know. My understanding of the world as I knew it is a little shaken right now. I don't know what to believe. But it doesn't take a genius to understand something went very wrong down here. Something devastating."

 _And call me a nug bugger, but I would bet anything that the red lyrium has something to do with all this shit_ , he decided. He wheedled the new pick into the lock, gently and carefully prying the broken piece out. After a few minutes of clicking and maneuvering, the welcome click of the lock echoed throughout the room. He flung the lid open expecting another assortment of gems or gold. Instead, he found a pillow of rotted velvet. On it sat a heavy iron key.

"Here it is!" he announced to them triumphantly.

Hawke grinned even as she winced through her aches and pains. "Told you. Demons won't offer you anything you can't manage to get on your own, if you make an effort and put in the time. Bastards."

"Varric…care to take a look at my maps?" Anders shook some rolled up parchments open. "Now that you mention it, I have one that details the passageways from the surface to a sealed off entrance referred to solely as "Ancient Thaig V."

Varric approached the map interestedly.

"See?" Anders indicated. "This is our last known location on this map. According to the numerical sequence, this other map would be the next one to be consulted." He dragged his fingertip over a different map.

"But we never needed to consult that map—" Varric began, understanding what Anders was suggesting.

"—Because we bypassed the known route when we descended into the thaig." Anders completed. He quickly rolled up the other maps and revealed a third map. "But this one is next in the numerical system…And that V." He stared. "I thought it stood for the number five, according to the old Tevinter numbering system…But now…Valdasine… would make far more sense."

"So what you are saying is once we unlock that door, we have, pretty much, a treasure map?" Varric grinned.

"The only reward I need right now is to be buffeted by a winter storm in the great outdoors," Anders confessed. "But, yes: these are old Grey Warden routes, still in use to this day.

"If there's a door, we'll find our way through it." Varric winked. "If there's a lock, then it can be picked."

"Personally, I like Sandal's solution: boom!" Hawke joked, wiggling her fingers. She turned to look at Bethany. "Aren't you impressed I remembered Bowen's son's name?" she teased.

Bethany, who had been resting on a chest, offered her a wan grin, but did not rally enough even to offer her usual reproachful correction.

"Are you all right?" Hawke asked, sitting up slightly.

"We're all out of lyrium—I'll feel better once we get out of here," she stated weakly.

Anders' brow furrowed.

"What seems to be the matter?"

Bethany shook her head.

"I don't think I've ever had to fight so hard…or cast so many spells—I am completely wiped out."

"Do you feel any—"

"Don't worry!" She laughed shakily. "Please—I'll be fine. Let's not waste anymore time. The sooner we get out of here—"

"The sooner you can write messages to Fenris…" Hawke grinned. "So did he just learn to read overnight?" she teased.

Bethany hoisted herself up with the aid of her staff.

"I'm sending them via Aveline. She agreed to aid in our correspondence."

"Bah…So, no steamy letters?" Hawke clucked her tongue disappointedly. "I would totally refuse that messenger job unless there were some steamy passages!"

"Really, Marian!" She reproached her faintly.

"You should have asked Isabela instead. Now, SHE would embellish that shit up!"

"Stop that!" Bethany retorted with a spark of amusement.

"Here's your letter: 'Dear Fenris, It's snowing. It snows every day. I miss you. With affection and respect, Bethany'," she taunted. "Now the Isabela-enhanced message: 'Dear Fenris, I'm cold and naked. Wish you could come here and keep me warm with your tight hot body. I need and want you…Lustfully yours—and still naked, Bethany."

Bethany was finally smiling, even as she moved slowly towards them.

"That was veritably _awful_."

"But, wow, I'd be thrilled to get the reply to THAT letter, no?" Hawke joked, rubbing her sister's back cheerfully. Varric was chuckling but stopped cold when he noticed Anders' expression. Yes, the Grey Warden was known to shamelessly ogle attractive women and men, but there was something unsettling about the quality of his stare just then. It was troubled and worried.

He drew his gaze back to Bethany and realized uneasily that something was wrong.

"Let's go—" he called to them, dropping the key in his pocket.

Perhaps the sooner they made it out of the mountain, the quicker things would begin to right themselves.

* * *

Thankfully their march up was uneventful. Those passageways were blessedly quiet and deserted.

When they reached a long passageway, Varric consulted the map once more.

"Hm…I'd say this is our way back."

"How long to get back?" Hawke peeked at the map.

"If we're unlucky?" It was hard to understand how the Wardens were calculating distances. It seemed to vary from map to map. "A week."

A collective groan rose among them.

"And if we're lucky?" Hawke winced.

"We stumble over Bartrand's corpse on the way!" He clenched his fists and marched forward.

* * *

Hawke had given up trying to track the passage of time. They had a few provisions among them and rationed their water. Once they crossed the crypt's door with their newly-acquired key, they found a quiet chamber with doors that locked from the inside and took turns keeping watch over each other's rest. Bethany, Hawke noticed with concern, slept fitfully. She never seemed to get enough rest. Not that she could blamer her- lying on a cold stone floor in an abandoned thaig in the Deep Roads was hardly restorative. She saved her own rations for Bethany.

 _Poor kid looks miserable_ , she thought, with a guilty pang.

They walked and walked and at one point, Hawke worried that they were walking in endless circles, stuck in a pattern. Anders and Varric assured her, though, they were making progress. Much later—she did not even try to understand how long after the crypt, she suspected she recognized the broad landing they stepped upon. Further ahead, she noticed some debris: doused campfires and empty, discarded containers of food and water.

"Hey! This part of the Deep Roads looks familiar!"

Varric nodded.

"We're back where we started." Their camp had been deserted. "And look: no one's expecting us!" He snorted.

"This is good news, though. We're not far from the surface now!"

Behind them she could hear Bethany's shuffling steps.

"Could we… slow down? I'm not feeling very well."

Hawke whirled around.

"Let's make camp if you're sick."

"You didn't eat any cave mushrooms, did you?" Varric tried to infuse the moment with a little levity, even though the unsettling sensation still gnawed at him.

"They're not poisonous," Anders insisted. "And I know these things!"

"Uh-huh. An expert on mushrooms. Suddenly, I understand you much better, Anders…" Hawke teased.

Bethany pitched slightly to the side, her expression despondent, just before she dropped to her knees.

"No, I…"

"Bethany!" Hawke raced to her side.

They all surrounded her as Hawke propped her head up on her lap. There, in brighter light, Hawke noticed how ashen Bethany appeared.

And then there were her eyes.

_Maker, her eyes have a dullness to them._

An opaque white film glazed over them. She knew exactly where she had seen such a scene before. She gripped her sister's shoulders.

_Don't let go, don't let go._

She no longer knew if she was admonishing herself of begging her sister.

Anders leaned closer and after a few seconds, nodded slowly.

"It's the blight. I can sense it."

Bethany turned her face to Hawke.

"I'll end up just like Wesley, won't I?" she asked quietly. Hawke squeezed tighter, tears welling up in her eyes.

"That's just like you, keeping this to yourself!" she scolded her nervously.

"What could you have done? Swoop to my rescue?" Bethany spoke in a wisp of a voice. "I'm not going to last until the surface." She grimaced. "It's coming on faster."

Hawke peered into Bethany's milky eyes even as hers clouded with stinging tears. She couldn't find the words.

 _Dearest, don't ask me to do it,_ she thought, terrified _. Anything, but this. Maker, no._

For a moment she regretted killing the demon. _Take me. I'll do anything. Spare her._

_Please._

She didn't notice she had begun openly weeping over Bethany until she wiped the droplets off her sister's forehead. She raised her eyes back up to Anders and Varric.

Anders was the healer. Anders was a Grey Warden. How could he not know? He had to know.

"Anders," she beseeched him. "Save her."

Anders crouched beside them and seized Bethany's wrist. He appeared lost in thought for a bit. When he let go, he grabbed the map in Varric's hand.

"There might be something we can do," he began cautiously. "I stole the maps from a Warden that had come to Kirkwall," he revealed. Hawke blinked at him in confusion. "I wanted to know if he was looking for me. He wasn't. The maps were for planning their own expedition into the Deep Roads."

Hawke furrowed her brow. Varric stared, uncharacteristically silent.

"Anders…do you mean to say…The Grey Wardens are _here_?"

"If the Wardens are here, I know where!" he continued, growing more excited at the thought. "We could bring Bethany to them…"

Hawke startled as she felt Bethany's hands clasp her arm.

"And do what?" she asked, bewildered. "Become a Grey Warden?"

Hawke's expression hardened.

"Is becoming a Grey Warden a cure?"

Anders hesitated.

"Yes, I suppose it is." He avoided looking at her. "But it is not without a price—one not everyone is willing to pay."

"What price?" Hawke cried. "Maker's Breath, spit it out!"

Anders proceeded.

"The process of becoming a Warden is…unpleasant."

Hawke snorted.

"Look at her! Anders—nothing can be worse than—"

"And irreversible," he completed. "It also means you might never see your sister again. She might survive the blight, but at the cost of becoming a Grey Warden. It's not an easy life. Trust me."

Hawke peered down at Bethany, gently sweeping her hair off her face.

"What about you? You're not a Grey Warden anymore!" she challenged him.

"You think I got away? Eventually they or the Circle will drag me back. I've got no illusions about that."

She stared into her sister's face.

_She's dying._

"If there's even a chance, we must take it," she decided. "We don't have time to waste." She flung Bethany's arm around her shoulders and carefully helped her up. Varric took Bethany's staff and placed her hand on his shoulder.

"Anders—go ahead. We'll follow," he told him. He cupped his hand over Bethany's firmly. "We'll take it one step at a time," he reassured her.

* * *

They had wandered through a few more passageways and tunnels, with Hawke growing more and more exasperated. They had fallen into a rhythm and actually managed to cover enough ground, even as Bethany hobbled on slowly. At one point, Anders raised his head from his maps again.

"I think they're nearby," he told them.

Hawke looked forward expectantly. Grey Wardens would certainly be a welcome sight.

"…Ooor it could be darkspawn," Anders concluded as low shrieks reached their ears.

"Shit, Anders!" Hawke finally erupted. "We don't have time for this!"

"Tell them that!" He pointed at the figures stepping out from an opposite passageway, blocking their path. Hurlocks. A good ten…twelve?

She turned to Varric.

"Varric," she pleaded.

He nodded, understanding her desperate request.

"With my life," he promised, unslinging Bianca and stepping protectively before Bethany.

She directed her focus back to the darkspawn.

"Let's give them hell."

* * *

The darkspawn crowded her, like in her many nightmares—swarming about her like when they fled Lothering.

But they hadn't counted on one thing.

She was not scared.

She was furious.

She swung her sword precisely, cutting through tough sinewy flesh, a head tumbling down and rolling over the stone. Threatening guttural noises erupted. She pressed her lips tight and raised her sword again.

"Don't move!" Varric shouted behind them. Hawke held still and within seconds, the sharp whistle of an arrow flew by her right ear right before it lodged into a hurlock's forehead.

Anders cast a chilling spell over a couple hurlocks, followed by a bolt of fire that hit nothing, but struck close to them, melting the ice and leaving them soaked. They snarled and Anders' lip curled in revulsion.

"Watch this," he whispered. With a forceful motion, he cast forth a wave of electricity. When it hit the soaked hurlocks, they began convulsing grotesquely until they collapsed, their flesh smoking from the shock.

She didn't have time to enjoy the spectacle, though; two hurlocks began to attack her. One quick glance revealed that she still had a good eight to nine hurlocks to defeat. And they were not going to wait to take turns. Without Bethany's aid, it was harder to control the larger numbers.

Just before she ordered Anders to run off with Bethany and Varric, they heard the unmistakable scrape of metal—it was the sound of swords being unsheathed.

A rallying cry echoed behind the attacking hurlocks. Suddenly surrounded, the darkspawn teetered between fronts to attack. Longswords slashed the air and plated armor glinted in the smoke.

It wasn't until the last Hurlock was impaled on a blade, sputtering angrily and blindly raking the air before crumpling onto the ground, that Hawke could see who their allies in the fight had been. She recognized the silver and blue armor, the armor any child had learned to admire as that of heroes in storybooks and tales.

_Grey Wardens!_

They all stood before each other awkwardly.

A tall, stately man with dark hair and a bushy moustache sheathed his sword and scrutinized them.

"Anders!" His eyes narrowed.

"Fancy meeting you here, Stroud."

The man crossed his arms.

"I could say the same. I thought you were through fighting darkspawn."

Hawke stole a quick glance behind her.

Varric was crouching beside Bethany, watching cautiously.

"I'm not here to fight darkspawn," Anders declared defiantly. "I came looking for you."

She signaled to Varric. He quickly rose, aiding Bethany to her feet. Hawke sprinted over to them, dipping down to support her sister.

They stepped forward, under the inquisitive gaze of the Wardens. Hawke walked Bethany to the imposing one called Stroud—he was the only one whose helm was not concealing his face.

"You mean the girl as a recruit?" he asked crossly, glaring at Anders. "Of course you do."

He approached her.

"I'm sorry. I know this comes as no comfort to you, but we do not recruit Grey Wardens out of pity. It is no kindness," he explained sternly.

Hawke's heart sank at his harsh manner.

"You think it's kinder to let Bethany die from the blight?" she cried incredulously.

"Sometimes it is, yes."

"And would the king and queen of Ferelden agree?" she asked boldly. "What would have become of Ferelden if such a 'kindness' had been issued to them?"

"Stroud," Anders intervened. "Trust me when I say this one is worth your time. With the Blight over, you Wardens don't have recruits lining up."

Hawke realized she was shaking. She was glad Anders had stepped in. She doubted she would have been as diplomatic.

"This is no simple thing, Anders. This may be as much a death sentence as the sickness, and you know it."

Hawke could only comprehend one thing. There was a chance. A tenuous one, perhaps, but a chance to save Bethany. Cost what it may—she would not die like that…And that man, that man with the hideous moustache, was the only thing standing between her and hope.

Anders caught the simmering anger in her expression and quickly spoke up.

"She'll die anyway. Take her and try…I'm asking you."

Hawke took a deep breath and swallowed hard.

_Tell them._

"My sister and I fled Ferelden during the Blight," she began, struggling to keep her composure. Her fingers curled around Bethany's arm— her skin clammy, but at the same time, feverish. "We fought our way out of Lothering. No one aided us—no soldiers, definitely no Grey Wardens. We lost two companions that day—one of them our brother. But we survived. We made our way to Kirkwall and we have lived there since, despite the persecution mages suffer in that city." She drew Bethany closer. "This woman is a warrior. She is one of the best companions you could ask for in a fight. She is loyal and steady. And more, Wardens: she is kind…and just. She has been my good conscience all these years." Her voice was cracking. "She does not deserve to die like this. Give her a fighting chance!"

She stared at Stroud, her heart pounding.

Stroud's eyes moved from her, to Bethany, and then back to Anders.

"Very well. I will try. But if I do this, then we are even."

He addressed her again.

"If the girl comes—"

"Woman," Hawke corrected him. "You don't go through what she has been through and remain a 'girl.'"

"She comes now, and you may not see her again. Being a Grey Warden is not a cure. It is a calling."

Bethany turned her head at her weakly.

"Are you sure about this?" she asked, frightened.

"I wish it hadn't worked out this way, dearest." She pressed Bethany against her.

"We must move quickly if we are to make the surface in time," Stroud announced to his group of Wardens.

One of the other Wardens stepped forward, expectantly, ready to steward Bethany away. Bethany glanced about in confusion. The sisters stared at each other, an understanding dawning upon both of them.

"Then…I guess this is it," Bethany uttered, her arms untangling from Hawke's grip. Varric handed Bethany her staff. Hawke stood still, her eyes wide as Bethany reoriented herself, trying to steady herself and focusing on the awaiting Warden.

"Take care of Mother," Bethany asked weakly, before turning around and attempting a few steps. Stroud, noticing her struggle, took her arm and swung it around his own shoulders. They walked down the passageway, quickly enshrouded by the heavy smoke.

Hawke did not move. She remained perfectly still. Not a sound.

* * *

"Come on, Hawke," Varric took her elbow, attempting to steer her towards the passageway leading to the surface. "Let's get out of here."

Hawke stared at the tunnel Bethany had disappeared into.

"Varric," she said very softly, her eyes wide and glossy with tears. "I'm not returning to Kirkwall until I know my sister's fate."

He exchanged glances with Anders.

"What kind of people are these? What kind of people won't even let their recruits' families know if they are dead or alive."

Anders waved his hand, a contrite look on his face.

"That…That might be because of me." He sighed heavily. "There is a lot of history…Some bad blood."

Hawke glared at him. Varric shook his head.

"Bad choice of words, Anders. Bad choice…" He squeezed her arm. "Come on. We won't accomplish much down here. Let's get out and then figure out what to do."

"I won't leave until I know what happened to Bethany," she insisted, stubbornly. "I won't."

 _If regret could kill, I'd be a steaming pile of rot_ , Varric thought.

"All right. Let's get out of this blasted place and then put out some feelers once we get to Jader."

"Jader?" Hawke asked, still numb.

"Orlesian Border town—my kind of place. Have a few contacts, ears and eyes in both Orzammar and Ferelden. If the Wardens are on the surface, we'll know where," he assured her.

The walk to the surface was the longest in his life. During the tedious walk up more endless staircases, past more wretched ruins, more elapsed glory and greatness he was simply fed up with, he had ample time to consider what a resounding disaster that expedition had been.

 _If only... Isn't that the mantra of disillusionment and guilt! All for greed. What was the old saying? 'The higher they are, the harder they fall.' Ironic to be talking about height_ , he thought morosely. _I was perfectly happy before this. Why did I have to go and ruin everything for everyone? This is all my doing. I couldn't have concocted a worse outcome if I were writing this shit._

He recalled Bethany, blight-stricken, a shadow of the sweet, cheerful young woman he'd gotten to know so well. Hawke walked ahead, moving assuredly, steadily. Heavens knew what was on her mind or where her thoughts were leading.

 _This woman has nightmares on a regular basis about her dead brother. Congratulations, Varric. Your miscalculations have dashed any hopes of her healing from that lost in the time it took for a door to slam behind us: family, fortune, reputation, friend…_ He stared at Hawke's slender figure and was struck by a piercing, overwhelming grief. _And love._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaah! Sorry for the longer chapter. I had to just get to it already and stop dragging my feet. I always thought it was strange in game that we don't see what happens once they emerge from the Deep Roads. I have trouble accepting that Hawke could return to her mother not knowing what had happened to Bethany. The way I think of Hawke and how protective she is of her sister... Like hell she isn't going to find out before heading home. The woman constantly does the impossible. You're telling me she can't snoop on the Grey Wardens long enough to figure out whether or not the joining worked? Nuh-uh. And I doubt Varric would just willingly waltz into Kirkwall after the shitstorm his brother has unleashed (plus, there's treasure to sweep up quick quick). So the next chapter (s?) aren't really canon divergence as much as filling in and tidying up a few loose ends that bothered me when I played the game.
> 
> Some dialogue directly from the game (in a couple instances, slightly adapted): the stone wraith demon, some of the conversations as they head out, and the exchange between Anders and Hawke on Bethany and with the Wardens.


	24. Chapter 24

"Your three best rooms," Varric asked tersely at the inn. The innkeeper stared at the pouch of gold before sweeping it off the counter.

"Right away, my lord."

He smirked. The title was a reminder he was not in the Marches. Jader was a crossroads city and it could be as turbulent as such confluences can be: it was Orlesian by claim, Fereldan in temper, and mirrored Orzammar in efficiency. The city reveled in its many facets. Nobles, pilgrims, and merchants all consistently flocked to the city en route to other destinations. This also attracted less savory types: lyrium smugglers, mercenaries, and a great many informants vying to sell advantage and opportunity. Its ports were seldom deserted as the city enjoyed its status as a gateway to and from Southern Thedas. Jader itself was nothing remarkable visually; its architecture was functional—it was nowhere as colorful or ostentatious as Val Royeaux. Half-timbered homes in earthy colors dotted the rocky landscape overlooking the sea.

Varric had remembered the Carrick Bend Inn once they wandered into town, bumbling into the bustling crowds. He was grateful for the chaos that forced him to pay attention to matters other than his own thoughts. He had a few immediate concerns: First, he needed to learn of Bartrand's whereabouts. He needed to determine whether they were the hunters or the hunted. He also needed to secure a trustworthy crew to return to the Deep Roads and salvage the treasure they'd found. His best bet lay with a few kalnas investors who could probably mobilize crews willing to descend in exchange for a percentage of the treasure. On top of those concerns, he needed to track the Grey Wardens. He needed to pick up Stroud and Bethany's trail and gather info—whether good or bad—quickly. He could not bear to see Hawke in that strange state she had slipped into. The best way to describe it, he thought, was as a kind of stupor.

She had said little to him or Anders once they emerged from the Deep Roads and made it down the mountains. Their return was supposed to have been triumphant and exultant, but any relief in reaching the surface at last had been marred by their losses. She appeared to respond to Anders and him mechanically—it was a labored performance. She was not well and it worried him.

_There is a storm raging inside her_ , he thought. _And she is drowning._

* * *

The innkeeper led them towards their rooms on the second story at the back of the gated estate, removed from the chaos of Jader's streets. The Carrick Bend wasn't the most convenient choice in terms of access to certain points he needed to visit—but it was located in an old, trusted associate's turf and that, right then, given their uncertain situation, was the most desirable quality.

And Varric couldn't deny he appreciated the comfort. On top of everything else, they were exhausted. The genteel surroundings and the patrician service were a balm he begrudgingly admitted he missed.

He briefly admired the view of the Frostbacks from his bedroom window. He dropped his pack on a fine upholstered chair and dug through its contents for a cleaner tunic. One look in the mirror at his wrinkled and dingy clothes made him concede that he should probably purchase something new if he wanted to appear presentable and trustworthy when he showed up calling for negotiations.

Once he stepped out of his room, he halted before the door across the way. He raised his hand and decided to plant a loud knock on it.

When no one answered, he gently tried the knob.

"Can I come in?" he asked, finding it unlocked, and cracking it slightly open. "Hawke?" he asked again, a twinge of concern edging into his voice.

When he pushed the door open all the way, he found her room shrouded in darkness. He could make out Hawke curled up over the large brocaded bedspread, her back facing him. She had not bothered to change out of her armor; she had worn her boots to bed and her belt and daggers sat in a small heap on the floor.

"Hey," he called out, approaching the canopied bed. "I'm stepping out for a bit—taking care of a few things." He hesitated. "Do you need anything?"

She managed to shake her head faintly. Seized by an overwhelming urge, he extended his hand and began to stroke her dark hair gently.

"Hawke, we'll find the Wardens. We'll get news of Bethany. I promise."

It was a daring promise. Who was he to understand the comings and goings of Grey Wardens? Where would he begin?

She said nothing in response, but turned her head to him, gazing at his face while he caressed her head.

Her eyes were pained and full of grief. He wanted to kiss her forehead, embrace her tightly and reassure her. He did not dare, though. It was not appropriate, he decided, and he did not know if it would even be welcomed. And just who would he be consoling? Her? Or himself?

Hope was scarce right then. He had no idea if the situation was something he could fix or even make better.

As he prepared to leave, he ordered Anders to stay by her side at all times.

"There's little I can do for her, Varric. I am a healer, but what is ailing her now is beyond my capacities."

"Then do what is within your capacities," he insisted. "Stay with her—don't leave her alone," he asked. "If you can't be her healer, be her friend."

* * *

Hawke remained inert, facing the wall, overcome by a listlessness that numbed her. The day passed—the room growing dimmer as the hour grew late.

The words haunted her—words from long ago, a sunny afternoon in their father's makeshift study, her mother finishing chores, humming nearby, Carver rolling on the ground with Woolfsley, then a pup, and she and Bethany sitting around piles of folded laundry, stacked dinner plates and cups, ready to be taken to the wash bucket, and several of Malcolm Hawke's treasured leather-bound books strewn across a table top. In the darkened room, Hawke's memory conjured the image of her father—still untouched by illness, raising an old book with the reverence of a cleric preparing to recite from the Chant.

She and Bethany were still young: they each used to settle in the chairs, knees folded up against their chests. She recognized the book from the other hundreds of times he'd read from it to them, as he hoped they, too, would be struck by the depths of those words:

"I have outlasted all desire, My dreams and I have grown apart; My grief alone is left entire, The gleamings of an empty heart."

She and Bethany would snicker—why, she had never really understood. Perhaps it was because her normally jovial and charming father would grow so uncharacteristically entranced reading those words, baring a vulnerability they could not comprehend…or perhaps did not want to comprehend. He would hold a brief silence, the words perhaps echoing somewhere inside his thoughts, before shifting his gaze back to his two mischievous daughters and feigning an exaggerated, theatrical disappointment at their failure to appreciate poetry. They would laugh, squeal in protest as he wondered hammily if they would prefer some bawdy serial instead, with plenty of over-the-top battle and saccharine love scenes.

Sometimes their mother, eavesdropping nearby would interject with a pithy, "Yes, please. That would be lovely, for a change…"

Home back then, in every iteration they managed to cobble, in fact, was often humble and temporary. But there had always been laughter. There had always been joy. They were perpetually on the move, always dodging the Chantry and eluding the Templars. She had occasionally envied other girls and boys she crossed paths with, wishing she, too, could be as carefree. There were no Chantry Fairs for her, no school friends to gossip and dawdle with. But at the end of the day, she would not have traded places with any of them.

Her father, standing in that small overcrowded room with attempts at an orderly life they stubbornly insisted in establishing, had succeeded in weaving a spell far more potent and mysterious than his mage's powers allowed.

Love: pure and simple.

Despite all the ugliness they had already witnessed, they had all remained somewhat innocent through their unwavering love for each other.

She had promised him to keep it alive—that spirit, that legacy of resilience, of strength, and love— and to keep them all together. All safe.

She had promised.

Images of Bethany as a little girl, bright eyed, watching her train, in that wondrous admiration so commonly found in children, for a period even imitating her mannerisms, flooded her memory with bittersweet vividness. She remembered her trembling hand seeking hers after Hawke had chased away a band of street urchins following them in a marketplace in a new village, the bigger boys teasing them and calling out crass insults. The little hand slipped between hers, clasping it tightly, seeking reassurance.

"Don't let go," she had ordered Bethany. "Stay close. I will keep you safe."

And for all the years afterwards, Bethany had never let go. Not once. Her faith in her had always been unwavering.

_I was the one who let go, dearest. I failed you. I did not keep you safe._

"I have outlasted all desire, My dreams and I have grown apart; My grief alone is left entire, The gleamings of an empty heart."

As the words rose to her lips, she realized she had finally grasped their full, melancholy meaning.

* * *

Hawke hadn't been asleep, but she startled as if torn from a dream when Anders' soothing voice persistently called out her name. For the briefest moment, she believed it had come from her father.

"It's all right if you don't feel like eating, but you must drink," he insisted. "I brought you some fresh water."

She managed to prop herself up on her elbows and turned her bleary eyes at him.

"I don't want to."

He wore traveling robes, his hair a deep gold, fastened in a messy ponytail, stubble over his cheeks. He sat on the edge of her bed after placing a pitcher and cup on the bedside table.

"You need to drink, or you will become dehydrated."

"I don't really care." She shrugged her shoulders and turned away again.

"But I do," he said in a gentler tone. "And besides, I don't want to think of what Varric would do to me if I did not take good care of you." She closed her eyes and winced. _Varric_. A stab of shame pierced through her. She couldn't imagine what he thought of her right then…and all of it would be well deserved, she thought glumly.

"Where is he?" she asked at last, turning her head.

"I don't know and I didn't ask. It's best that way. I suspect he's on a mission." Anders paused, pondering his words. "Actually, several missions. Said not to expect him back tonight, but if he isn't back by tomorrow afternoon, we'll have to move out and go to this address here," he mumbled, fumbling through his robe's pockets.

Hawke's eyes widened slightly.

"What is he up to?"

"You know what? I've said too much. You shouldn't be worrying about this." He wrung his hands and peered towards the shuttered window.

"You don't have to stay here, you know," Hawke offered after an uncomfortable silence. It was easier to wallow if she was alone.

"Oh, but I do!" Anders protested. "Varric entrusted your care to me. I am supposed to be stationed here, like…like your guard dog."

He bobbed the cup of water before her again and she weakly reached for it. She took small sips, as if the whole endeavor exhausted her. She cast him a surreptitious glance, catching him sitting beside her so despondently.

_Like a guard dog_ , she thought dismissively, taking another sip of cool water. _We're all looking scruffy enough to compete with Woolfsley_ , she thought.

Another sip and the ideas rushed through her mind. A guard dog—to track scents… Phylacteries…her father had always called Templars bloodhounds…And Anders…a guard dog. Couldn't he sniff out Tainted blood?

Her fingers clutched the soft coverlet as she pushed herself up with some effort.

"Anders!" she commanded, swinging her legs over the edge of the bed.

"What's wrong?" He contemplated her in a mild panic.

"We are going out, you and I." She rose from the bed, but immediately fell back down, her vision darkening slightly as she felt lightheaded.

"You are in no condition to go anywhere." Anders crossed his arms. "Besides, Varric told me to stay put."

"I thought he told you to stay with me."

"Yes, he did that."

"Then you have to go out. Because I am going out. And you must stay with me."

Anders furrowed his brow.

"You have always been my worst patient, defying the very etymology of the term."

Hawke took the cup from is hands and tipped it back, drinking all its contents.

"All right," he conceded. "That helps…a little."

"Are you starving?" she challenged him. Grey Wardens, she had learned from him, were perpetually hungry. "I am famished. Let's go." She moved assuredly, concealing her discomfort and pain as her bruised and battered body seemed to protest at the new demands she was making of it. She clenched her teeth as she swooped down for her belt and daggers. When she wriggled into her armor, she noticed Anders remained motionless, watching her stoically.

"Come, Anders," she entreated him. "I cannot do this without you."

Nothing. He merely inhaled deeply.

"Please."

He blinked.

"As a favor," she pleaded.

"I thought I had already done you a favor by coming on this expedition," he chided her.

"Yes, you did—but that was a favor for _Varric_. Not for me. I am asking you now: will you help me, Anders?"

They stared at each other silently, Hawke pressing her lips together, a wave of heightening apprehension rising within her.

"A favor for Varric, was it?" he finally replied. She was uncertain of his tone and what it meant. He slowly shook his head evincing disbelief. "You two are terrible…Just terrible," he teased, standing up and brushing off the creases on his robe. "So…where are we going?" he wondered with resignation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Bethany (and maybe Hawke, too?) mentions in game that Anders reminds them a little of their father. The poem Hawke remembers is borrowed; it's by Pushkin. Its title is "I Have Outlasted All Desire". I've been slow to write and edit and update, but I've actually been working on it. Really! ;-) Thank you for reading!


	25. Chapter 25

Hawke and Anders moved down the streets of Jader with pressing urgency as dusk fell over the city.

"What about now? Can you sense anything?" Hawke asked, searching his face.

"Nothing."

"Not even a whiff?"

"That's not exactly how the Taint works, you know. It's not like a scent or anything of the sort…Although it is definitely as distinct." He shuddered.

"If there are Grey Warden headquarters somewhere in this city, we will find it, right? How can you not sense an entire building filled with Grey Wardens?" she cried.

Without a further word, she gripped him by the shoulders and steered him forward, as if he were a human-sized dowsing rod.

"Maker, Hawke…We have been at this for over an hour…"

"What about this old building? Looks promising, no?" She stared at the façade of a dilapidated estate.

"How many times do I have to tell you? Why wouldn't Grey Wardens appreciate functionality and practicality over a certain…How did you put it?... 'Gloomy atmosphere,'" he protested. "Although, I am quite sure Fenris might fancy it…"

"Let's try down this way," she suggested, yanking him towards another street.

"Hawke, we've veered far from the inn and neither one of us knows this city." He raised his eyes to the darkening sky. "Besides, I am famished. You promised me dinner."

"Of course I did. And dinner's at the end of this street here." She pat his shoulder reassuringly.

"No, it isn't," he grumbled. "You are just saying that to make me go on a wild goose chase down yet _another_ street."

"I promise. Just one more street. Then we stop for dinner. We'll revisit our strategy."

Anders grimaced, but nodded faintly.

"Very well." He sighed audibly.

Hawke grinned very slightly before a thought assailed her and she pat down her vest.

"Say, Anders...Did you remember to bring any coin?" She bit her lower lip.

He let out an exasperated, strangled groan before storming ahead.

* * *

They found themselves at a small tavern overlooking the shore below. There was a rawness to the air in Jader that Kirkwall, despite also being on the sea, did not possess. Her clothes constantly felt clammy and her bones were chilled.

"It's because of the cold wind from the mountains," Anders concluded. "Also, Kirkwall is further north, closer to more temperate weather.

They were being regarded suspiciously at the tavern; the barmaid barely made eye contact with them and when she replied to their inquiries about the dinner fare, offered them monosyllabic replies. Other patrons, nursing their tankards of ale or spooning their way through crocks of what smelled like fish stew, eyed them warily. They heard Common spoken with Orlesian accents, just as often as Fereldan ones.

Try as she might, Hawke was failing at concealing her trembling hands from Ander's scrutiny. At the sight of her almost buckling from exhaustion, he sucked in a deep, troubled breath.

"Maker, what have you gotten us into? Why did I ever let you talk me into this nonsense? Jader is a large city and we haven't even begun grazing its surface. This is like trying to find a needle in a haystack. Why don't we go back to the inn? Let's wait for Varric and hear what he has to say."

A hollow ache troubled her when Anders mentioned his name.

"Varric has enough problems. I don't need to add to them!" she retorted impatiently.

The barmaid brought them two crocks of creamy chowder before wandering away. One glance at the lumpy clams poking from the surface was enough to trigger nausea. She seized her cup of water and downed a few sips.

"Right. Because our disappearing without an explanation doesn't add at all to his list of worries." Anders dug into his meal with gusto.

"Maybe you can sit and wait for news. I can't. Not when it concerns my sister."

A few burly men at a table further down from them kept staring at them.

"Yes, of course. Why sit and wait for news when we can BE the news? Don't look now, but I suspect we are about to meet some of the neighborhood brutes."

"And that should make us feel right at home!" Hawke gave Anders' arm a light punch.

He placed the thin water crackers they'd been given with their soup before her.

"At least coat your stomach with something: this is quite harmless."

They ate in silence: Anders finished his soup while Hawke gnawed on the edge of a cracker. He met the persistent gaze of the men before returning his attention to her. "So how do you propose we find the Wardens from here onwards?"

"Simple."

"I'm listening." Anders spooned the last of his chowder into his mouth before reaching for Hawke's untouched meal.

"We'll just ask." She shrugged.

Anders blinked, perplexed.

"Perhaps I did not hear that correctly."

At that, Hawke dragged her chair out noisily and stood up. She surveyed the room as the patrons and staff momentarily fell into a tense silence.

Hawke realized that some moments were like crossroads…or like the end of a cliff overhanging a long drop. It was as if time stood still, awaiting her next move…and she needed to take courage…a deep breath, and move forward.

"Excuse me," she began, in a loud voice. "Can someone here direct me to the Grey Wardens?"

Anders' spoon dropped with a loud clink as he gaped at her.

* * *

Varric wondered if they had reemerged in a different world once they left the Deep Roads—that they had somehow taken a wrong turn, crossed a cursed portal and entered a parallel universe. That whole affair just grew stranger and more confusing.

No one had seen or heard any news of Bartrand since they'd trekked to the Frostbacks.

One of his associates had grown pale upon finding Varric standing very much alive at his doorstep. Varric had taken this at first as an admission of guilt: perhaps the man was complicit with his brother. But the explanation given subsequently was one echoed by other familiar contacts brought in throughout the evening: their party had been presumed dead. The blighters and porters Bartrand had left behind after following them down into the doomed thaig had waited for a day before conducting an inconclusive search. Varric had scrutinized the expression of their main local investor. The man appeared not only amazed, but delighted by his return. He had feared that his gamble had been converted into a heavy loss. Varric recognized greed perfectly well, but other than that, he caught no whiff of deceit in the man's eagerness. Even the porters' foreman, summoned at a late hour to convince Varric of the accounts given of their disappearance and abandonment, revealed earnest frustration.

For all he knew, Bartrand could very well have met his demise after his betrayal. Relieved his brother had not poisoned their contacts—at least, not in Jader— he began to rally a recovery party to return to the Deep Roads. That would not be an easy feat: the blighters they'd hired had been spreading terrifying stories of the horrors they'd encountered beneath the surface.

Although it was late in the evening, Jader still bustled with activity. Lanterns lit the way down main streets and patrons still stumbled out periodically from the many taverns lining the street along the seawall. Varric moved swiftly past the modest crowds, watchful of activity around him, just in case he truly was in danger and all his fine skills of discernment and logic had, in fact, eluded him in that alternate reality he suspected he had wandered into. To his relief, he reached the steep climb up to their inn without incident. He was looking forward to some rest, even as he was itching to get up early the next morning to follow up on a few loose ends: a last perusal of all the passenger manifests of ships to Kirkwall, instructions dashed to various associates back home warning them about Bartrand, and—a delicate and likely costly inquiry: locating the Grey Warden called "Stroud." He'd gone to great pains to assure his contact that he would not be engaging in any conflict with the Warden. He knew that folk in the region were protective of the Wardens. Not only had the Wardens successfully thwarted the Blight, they had revitalized their legendary image as heroes just as they sought to recover from the heavy losses they'd suffered at Ostagar. He doubted anyone who had endured the Blight would readily point him, an outsider, from Kirkwall no less, in the direction of the Wardens' headquarters in the city.

He had almost reached the bend in the road, the last stretch before the steps to the inn's entryway, when he heard voices further ahead, whispering conspiratorially. Immediately he stepped back into the shadows and reached for Bianca.

_Should have known better. Why ambush a mark on a busy street full of witnesses when a quick house call will do?_

He observed two figures puzzle at the entrance's doorway before what appeared to be the world's most incompetent attempt at picking a lock. He smirked, arming the crossbow and preparing for whenever they began their descent towards him. One of the figures flailed its arms in a panic…or was it frustration? He couldn't tell from that distance. Eventually, both figures tried to examine the lock at the same time and bumped their heads noisily. He chuckled to himself, shaking his head lightly.

_My reputation is suffering. Someone obviously thought sending two boneheads to ambush me would do the trick!_

It was only when he heard a volley of foul language uttered by a voice he would have recognized in any universe or plane of existence that he lowered his crossbow in surprise and hastened his step towards the entrance.

"Hawke?" he called out.

Both figures stiffened as he approached them.

"What the blazes are you two doing out here at this hour?"

"I was following orders: I…Stayed with her. Like you asked." Anders shrugged.

He pushed past them, his head finally giving in to a latent throbbing.

"I hope you have a key," Anders continued. A tiny lantern over the entrance cast a faint glow over them. Hawke's eyes glistened as if feverish.

Varric pulled out the iron key from his pocket.

"Even if I didn't, I could still get us in, you know."

He peered down to see a twig inelegantly jammed into the keyhole. He pinched it out and examined it bemusedly before tossing it on the ground. "Have I taught you people nothing?"

The door opened to a peaceful courtyard. With a quick glance towards the street to assure himself that he hadn't been followed, he ushered them both in and locked the door swiftly behind them.

They marched silently past the foyer and up the flight of stairs, mindful not to disturb the other guests. It was only when they arrived before Varric's room, and he opened the door, with a stern glare at both of his companions, that they tamely filed in.

"I can't believe you two were running around Jader like this, not knowing what our situation was. You do realize you could have walked right into a number of ambushes," he scolded them. "For all you knew, Bartrand could have put out a contract on our lives."

"And did he?" Anders wondered, stepping closer to hearth.

Hawke stood mutely by the door.

"No," Varric replied, distracted by the pale figure she cut, growing restless at his own powerlessness.

"Where is he?" Anders continued.

"No one knows," was his curt reply. It hurt him to see her in that state, although he noted she seemed sprightlier than earlier.

"We were looking for Stroud." Hawke stared ahead, into the fire. "And we found him."

His eyes widened.

"What? How?"

Anders rolled his head to the side with a light crick.

"Hawke can fill you in on the details of our adventure-or should I say 'misadventure'? I'm going to my big, warm, and comfortable bed."

Varric watched him make his way out.

They stood before each other wordlessly. Varric searched her gaunt face, devoid of the mischief and warmth he had always encountered before. They seemed to have reached a small impasse before Hawke finally blinked.

"Can I stay here tonight?" she asked in an unsure, tentative tone.

"Of course." He exhaled with relief.

* * *

They lay over the coverlet on the large bed, facing each other.

"We found Stroud, but we couldn't talk to him," she revealed.

"How did you find him? The Wardens don't exactly announce their whereabouts."

"I took Anders through the city, hoping he would sense a Warden somewhere. They do have headquarters—and at least safe houses—in most cities."

He grinned at her.

"That's actually not a bad plan."

She grinned back at him.

"Except that Jader is larger than we realized…"

He scratched his stubble.

"You mean you didn't unearth any clues?"

"No. We had to try something else."

"What did you do?"

"I asked. We were at a local tavern, because Anders is always hungry, and I simply asked the patrons if they could direct me to the Grey Wardens."

He eyed her with a bewildered expression.

"And that worked? They just _told_ you?"

"Look at me." She indicated her beat up armor, a bruised forehead, and disheveled hair. "I'm a dirty Fereldan who sounds like a milkmaid from the Bannorn. I'm the most unsuspicious person in our party right now," she huffed. "They told me there was an abandoned Chantry cloister that the Wardens had taken over since the Blight. It is on the other side of town."

Of course she would just go up and ask. She was disarming like that. No patience for elaborate ruses and schemes. She preferred a direct approach, whether it was facing down a band of adversaries or asking straight out what she wanted to know. Shit strategy…but sometimes it worked. He broke out in laughter.

And for the first time in all those days he caught her smile—it was faint and her eyes were still infinitely sad, but he saw her lips part and for a moment, they were accomplices again.

"Look, it doesn't serve the Wardens well to be all hush-hush if they are trying to increase their numbers," she reasoned.

"And then you tried to break back into the inn with a twig?"

She grimaced.

"That was just frustration. Anders forgot the key."

He pretended to grow very serious.

"Oh, I see. It was Anders' fault for forgetting the key."

"Yes, because we were on a mission. He should have known that he had to attend to the details. I am a more 'big-picture' kind of visionary." She contemplated him as seriously.

He chuckled at that.

"You ran out with just the clothes on your back and your daggers, am I right?"

"All I am saying is that he was woefully unprepared," she agreed. Her expression softened. "You're a much better sidekick."

"Sidekick!" he feigned indignation, but his heart was racing. That ribbing was familiar territory between them. "So, once you reached the Wardens' headquarters…what happened?"

She sighed and rolled onto her back.

"The sentinels outside the cloister were pricks. They confirmed to us that Stroud was there, but then refused to let us talk to him. They also wouldn't answer if Bethany was there."

"I'm surprised you managed to find out that Stroud was there at all."

"That might have been because I started yelling his name outside the gates."

He chuckled again.

"I am amazed you are here and not in some jail cell for disorderly conduct."

Her gaze remained trained on the ceiling.

"I'm going back again tomorrow. I'll sit there all day if I must. Stroud can't stay locked away forever. Someone should tell me what happened to Bethany."

Varric nodded.

"I guess we're getting up early, then."

Hawke turned her head to look at him.

"Oh, I'm going with you," he explained, before she could protest.

To his surprise, her hand wandered to his cheek and she caressed his face with the back of her fingers. He pressed her hand to his cheek, her touch a balm for the ache in his heart.

"I am starting to feel hope again," she revealed, softly. "I don't know if I should...if that's a good thing."

She fell asleep before he did—her usual, restless sleep, complete with low groans and furrowed brow. He did not know what to think, if he dared to hope, too. He had to be ready for the aftermath of whatever revelation was made the following day. Whatever it was: he would be there, by her side.


	26. Chapter 26

The stern-faced sentinels at the cloister gate took their duty seriously, staring ahead to discourage any inquiries or unnecessary communication.

"Good morning," Hawke announced, positioning herself for a likely stand-off before the gate.

The young men replied nothing.

"I would like to speak to Warden Stroud," Hawke announced.

"And who seeks an audience with him?" said one of the men in a thick Orlesian accent.

The other young man leaned in and whispered something to his colleague. They both cast her stern glares afterwards.

"You are the one who came by last night and caused a commotion!"

"She tends to have that effect everywhere she goes." Varric interrupted the exchange by stepping between them, a canteen in each hand. He handed one to Hawke and took a sip from his before staring at the men. "Ah. Hot tea." He smacked his lips.

"Warden Stroud has instructed that he is not to be disturbed."

Hawke grinned.

"Very well. Then, can you tell me if among you is a Fereldan recruit? An attractive brunette with light hazel-colored eyes and—" Hawke raised her hands suggestively before her breasts. Varric choked on his tea and cleared his throat.

_Oh, the show has just begun. They have no idea of what's in store._

The young men stared at her, bewildered. He smirked.

_Come to think of it, neither do I._

"We are not at liberty to disclose such information."

"I see." She nodded slowly. "Then I need to ask Warden Stroud."

"Warden Stroud is not available."

Hawke snorted.

"Oh, but we can do this all day!" she cried out. "I can wait. Warden Stroud will have to step out eventually. So, I'll wait right here until he does. Tell them, Varric."

"She's very persistent. She can wear a man down. When we first met over a year ago, I was as tall as a Qunari warrior," he informed them solemnly. Hawke couldn't help cracking a grin at that.

"Not only that, but we have tea," Hawke completed. "I feel quite fortified. Don't you?" She turned to Varric.

"Quite! Quite!"

They clicked their canteens together. The sentinels looked off disapprovingly.

* * *

After the second hour, a different Grey Warden peered out from behind the gate and conferred briefly with the younger sentinels.

"You there!" He waved his hand at them dismissively. "Loitering at the gates is not permitted."

"What about loitering _inside_ the gates?" Hawke called out.

"No loitering," the man insisted. "It is the law. You are not allowed to simply stand there just doing nothing outside the gates."

"We aren't just 'doing nothing', as you so callously put it!" Hawke stood straighter. "My partner and I are waiting for Warden Stroud. That is hardly doing nothing. In fact, waiting for him has kept us quite busy! Wouldn't you agree?" She turned to Varric.

He nodded, raising his eyebrows.

"Move along, or we will be forced to take action."

Hawke tilted her head with customary insolence.

"Would this taking action result in my being brought inside?"

A mild confusion broke out among the sentinels and the intrusive Warden.

"No, you would not be brought in here. You aren't getting anywhere inside," he emphasized. "Now, shoo. You are loitering."

"I am most definitely not."

"But you are. Go."

"I am very busy right now."

"Doing _what_ , pray tell?"

"Trying to get Warden Stroud's attention." She cupped her hands around her mouth and began to shout. "Come on, Stroud! Come talk to me!" She paced around the outer walls of the cloister alternating cries of "Stroud" with "Bethany". When one of the sentinels grew more agitated and began to move towards Hawke, Varric joined her shouting.

"Stroud!" he bellowed. "We are waiting for you!"

The sentinels grew annoyed at their antics. Their shouting endured for a few minutes—enough to disturb most of the neighborhood. A few residents and merchants watched the spectacle unfurl on the street.

* * *

It wasn't until late in the day, when their shadows had grown longer, after Hawke had unleashed volley after volley of summons to Stroud, that a woman in full Grey Warden armor stepped out into the street, her helm gleaming in the fading sunlight.

"You must cease this unholy racket now," she reprimanded them. "Warden Stroud will meet with you."

Hawke smiled triumphantly even as she did her damnedest not to stagger to the gates. Varric knew she was still exhausted and in pain.

"You must, however, be brief." The gates swung open and the woman stepped aside. Hawke grinned cockily at the glum sentinels. Varric swaggered behind her, but was met with crossed lances barring his path. "This is to be a short audience," the woman warned. "Your friend waits here."

Hawke cast an outraged glance towards the crossed lances and was about to protest, but Varric winked and nodded at her reassuringly.

"Go." He waved her on.

* * *

Varric waited. He sat down on the sidewalk, waiting for the better part of an hour until the gates opened again. Hawke hurried out, turning around only to exchange a few words with the Warden that had accompanied her.

It was difficult to discern the expression on her face as she approached him.

"How did it go?"

"Bethany is alive. She is here," she blurted out, indicating the cloister. He was overcome by relief, as if a weight he did not even realize he'd been hauling had been lifted from him. He sought that same expression of relief in her face, but met instead with a furrowed brow.

Something wasn't right.

"Is she all right? Were you able to talk to her?"

Hawke's gaze remained fixed on the ground as they walked away from the cloister. She did not reply.

"Hawke?" he insisted, keeping up with her hurried pace.

When she looked up, he noticed her eyes were red rimmed.

"She refuses to speak to me." She wiped the back of her hand over her nose and sniffed. "Most of the time I was in there was spent waiting and digging my heels in when asked to leave," she revealed.

Varric grimaced.

"Are you sure she is all right? What if the Wardens are simply trying to keep you away from her?"

She shook her head.

"She hates me."

"Now, you can't really believe that!"

Hawke shook a crumpled sheet of parchment at him. He slowed his pace and began to read.

"Hawke,

So it's official: I'm a Grey Warden. Stroud says I'm lucky that the Warden's ritual has kept the taint at bay. Not sure if _I'd_ call it luck, but I'm alive.

It's been brutal, going through this. I have awful nightmares. I close my eyes and hear whispering. Is it real, or am I going mad? I'll survive that, too. That's my life now: survival, getting through each day. That's what you wanted, isn't it?

Tell Mother I miss her.

With love,  
Bethany"

Hawke hadn't slowed down; he rushed after her. They wove through a modest crowd exiting a tavern.

"She is angry. Did you read it? 'That's what _you_ wanted.' She blames me. This is all _my_ fault."

He frowned at the neat handwriting. One did not need to be a great scholar to comprehend the deliberate bitterness contained in the brief missive.

"Tell me: what was I supposed to do, Varric? Was I supposed not to fight? Was I supposed to let her die in my arms?" She leaned towards him, her face practically in his. "She is right: I can't imagine what being a Grey Warden is like. There are old tales and legends and then we've heard Anders and his stories, so I know a few things…But to resent me for refusing to give up on her? For _imposing_ life on her? She may be a Grey Warden now, but she is always Bethany, despite everything! She is still alive! That is what matters! Life is always, always, going in directions I did not expect it to and if I have learned anything, it's this: as long as you are still standing, you have the chance to make things right." They stared at each other for a moment, Varric mildly stunned by her ardent speech, the most animated he'd seen her in days. "I don't know what to do with myself," she confessed, clenching her fists and pacing to and fro on the street. "I am so angry. So angry. How dare she? She resents me for loving her, for having faith in her resilience and courage. Am I supposed to feel guilty because she would have considered death a better alternative? What about our mother? What about our friends, everyone who loves her?" She drew a sharp breath…and then her face crumpled and she let out a muffled sob. "I can't stand it, Varric. Nothing I do ever turns out right."

As Hawke sniffed loudly, rubbing her eyes, he quickly surveyed the surroundings searching for a more private place where he could take her to calm her down. He knew her well and knew she felt deeply and intensely. He also knew her mind had begun to whir again in that vicious loop of punishing thoughts. That undertow of blunt self-loathing threatened to engulf her, shutting her down and taking her away again to somewhere dark.

Away from him. Somewhere he might not be able to reach her.

_We need to go somewhere_ , he decided, perusing different shop signs. _Fast_. One sign caught his attention. Boulangerie Varrel: a bakery. Jader was Orlesian, after all. _Of course_. It would do. He tapped her arm.

"And you are telling me all this again, why?" he stated calmly.

She seemed taken aback by his aloof manner.

"Why wouldn't I? Aren't you the one who is always demanding to know my thoughts? My feelings? Because if not, you can just tell me now and I will shut up and trouble you no more with my tragedies!"

He shook his head. _Calm. The secret is to remain calm._ He could not let himself be dragged into that turmoil of emotions or he'd make things worse. _Distract and entice her. Make her want to stay here. Present. With me.  
_

"That's not what I meant. I am on your side. Here with and for you. The one to whom you should be telling all of this is Bethany."

"And how do you propose I do that? Telepathically? She won't talk to me! She won't even _look_ at me!"

"And you are going to give up just like that?" he asked, heading towards the bakery. She followed him, still indignant.

"I sat in there for the better part of an hour waiting alone until I was told to leave."

" That's nothing new: I believe they asked you to leave when you first reached the cloister's gates."

"That's different. That was the Wardens. Nothing personal. This is Bethany. And Bethany has it in her head… Well, she is stubborn. If she's made up her mind, she won't come out no matter what."

"Hmm…I wonder where she gets that stubborn streak from!"

They entered the small shop. Several freshly baked baguettes sat piled on a rack, their golden crusts crisp.

"One, please," he indicated, raising a finger.

"Pot de beurre?" the attendant asked, not even raising her eyes as she reached for a fresh loaf and passed it to him. He quickly glanced at the shop: one long table and benches—it was quiet. _Perfect_.

"Yes: thank you."

Hawke followed him to the table and sat down sulkily. He tore a hunk of bread off and offered it to her.

"I've never known you to give up on anything. If you need to speak to Bethany, I think you should try again."

She put her hand up in refusal—of both the bread and the suggestion.

"Did you miss the part where she refused to talk to me? She only dashed off a letter because the Wardens probably forced her to write one, to get rid of me. If she doesn't want to talk to me, perhaps I should respect that."

He nodded, spreading a pat of fresh herbed butter the shop attendant brought them on his slice of steaming fluffy bread. Undeterred by her refusal, he handed her the buttered slice as he appeared to be collecting his thoughts.

"I am all for respecting space, except when it's obvious there's a serious miscommunication. Because then, I have to take into consideration how I feel and whether it is fair or not for me to slink away quietly while there is this gaping misunderstanding affecting both sides." He watched with satisfaction as she nibbled a small bite…and then another, pausing for a second to examine the bread with approval.

"You have the right to express how you feel, to respond to her. If she still wants you to keep your distance afterwards, then that's different. But right now, you need to reach her to let her know how you feel, at least," he continued.

Hawke's cheeks were stuffed with bread when she finally spoke, placing a hand in front of her mouth.

"But how?…She won't talk to me."

He pulled out a small notebook and a charcoal pencil from his coat pocket and placed it before her. Her eyes widened and she swiftly wiped her hands on her armor.

"You can still communicate even if she won't talk to you."

"I'm not used to doing stuff like this." She reached for the pencil and opened the notebook, leafing past his many notes to a fresh page. He grinned.

"Well, get used to it. Bethany and you are going to be pen pals for long stretches of time now."

She lowered her eyes to the notebook as if considering a new opponent. Raising the charcoal pencil, she began to scrawl down a few words.

"Dear Bethany," she began. With her other hand she made a pinching gesture at him. Understanding immediately what she meant, he tore off another hunk of bread for her. "You are being a humongous, ungrateful ass." She examined her work and then crossed it out quickly. With the tip of the pencil, she pointed at the butter. He obligingly swiped her slice across the small crock and wordlessly offered it to her. She took another bite and peered at the bread curiously. "Say, this is really good, isn't it? I've never had anything like it. Now that we're rich, can we have an Orlesian bakery?"

A grin emerged on his lips.

"Ok," she announced between bites. "How about this? 'Bethany, come down this instant or you will sorely regret it.'"

He crinkled his nose and shook his head, relief washing over him. She was more like herself again. The surge of rage and grief had ebbed away.

"None of this is going to fly, is it?"

He chewed pensively before shaking his head.

"I know, I know," she admitted at last. "But…this helps. This writing thing…You're absolutely right. It helps a lot."

She glanced around the shop.

"Madame! Another loaf!" she ordered. "And another thing of… _burr_ , too, please. I'm going to need a lot of it."

He folded his arms and leaned forward, letting his eyes rest affectionately on her face over her long-lashed downcast eyes.

"Ok, ok…How about this: My dear ungrateful sister," she began, her expression familiarly impish. "If you deem yourself worthy of your big girl britches, I dare you to come say what you really think to my face, you little snot." She punctuated the last sentence. "Too much?"

He grinned back.

"Always."

* * *

Next morning the found themselves back at the gates of the old cloister. The two wardens on sentinel duty cast them an exasperated look, recognizing Hawke from the previous, chaotic day.

"I am here to see my sister, Bethany Hawke. I was here yesterday. I met with Warden Stroud. He's fine with my dropping by while I'm in town," she exaggerated.

Varric hung back, an amused expression on his face.

The sentinels appeared unconvinced, but after exchanging glances, one of them slipped back inside.

"So what do you people do for fun around here?" Hawke leaned against the wall, crossing her arms and trying to appear nonchalant.

The sentinel said nothing and stared straight ahead instead.

"Do you people play cards?"

Nothing. They remained in silence for several minutes, waiting.

"How about charades?"

More waiting. Approximately fifteen minutes had passed, Varric would've guessed.

The gate finally creaked open and both he and Hawke watched expectantly as the returning guard conferred with her colleague.

"Warden Hawke does not wish to speak to you. You must take your leave now."

_You knew this was coming_ , Varric thought, hoping Hawke had braced herself.

"Warden Hawke…Hm. Fancy. I like it." She cleared her throat. "Look, can you let Warden Hawke know that she doesn't have to speak to me at all? She just needs to read a note I wrote her. If she decides she still will not speak to me after reading it, I'll leave."

"My orders were clear."

"I see." She shrugged. "Ah, well."

She lowered the pack she had brought and fished out a small cooking pot and a heavy slotted spoon.

"Bethany! You better talk to me or I am going to be here all day."

Hawke began clanging on the pot.

"You can't—" one of the Wardens began.

"I can't what? Express myself? This is a public street, isn't it?"

"You are disturbing the peace."

"At least I'm not loitering, agreed? Besides, it's normal business hours." Satisfied with her own explanation, she hoisted up the pot and began parading before the gate. "Bethany, come talk to me!" she declaimed rhythmically, punctuated by her drumming.

"Catchy!" Varric leaned against a wall.

* * *

He left her for a couple hours, having to meet with some of his contacts. They'd secured a crew, inspection, crating, and transporting, hired a ship to take everything they couldn't convert to gold back to Kirkwall. He'd also checked in with one of his partners.

There was no sign of Bartrand, anywhere. It was mystifying.

Unless he had planned his deceitful coup far in advance, there was no way Bartrand could have slipped by so easily without tripping their extended network of contacts, associates, investors, and informants. Correspondence from Kirkwall indicated business as usual.

_Unless everyone's in on it_ , he thought uneasily. _Now that's a little paranoid_ , he concluded. But it didn't hurt to be careful. As he walked back to the cloister, he heard the continuous drumming of the pot. Hawke was still marching around the compound, her head bobbing to and fro, in time with the beat. A small crowd was assembled before the gate and he could see there was an agitated conversation going on between the Wardens and their most displeased neighbors.

"Be-tha-neeeeee!" Hawke droned, trying to crane her neck to peer over the wall. "I'm just going to keep embarrassing you in front of your new friends!" she yelled, her voice growing hoarse.

"Putain! Give it a rest!" a stout man cried out in a thick Orlesian accent. Hawke paused for a moment.

"I will, when the Wardens deliver my note. Then there will be peace. It's up to them. Get mad at them." And with a tight grin, she resumed her clattering.

"All day with the 'boom boom!' Do something!" The man threw his arms up in frustration.

It was still midafternoon when the Wardens, finally giving in to pressure, took her note to Bethany. A few minutes later, Hawke was summoned to the gates. She immediately dropped the pot into her pack.

She had been granted a ten-minute audience.

* * *

_Gloomy and cool_ , Varric remarked to himself, as they were escorted into a room off the main hall.

Tall stained-glass windows revealed scenes from Chanter Eileen's life, an early martyr. He felt as they were sitting in the side chapel of a cathedral. If the Wardens had been given ownership of that building, it sure wasn't apparent. It felt like the Wardens were merely squatting among ruins. Hawke fumbled nervously with her pack.

"Think they'll notice back at the inn that I stole a pot?"

"Orlesians do not mess with their cuisine. The punishment for a first offense is brutal."

"Oh?"

"Death by stoning with fossilized fruit cake," he stated seriously. Hawke cracked a grin.

"Amateurs! I've survived Merrill's blood magic bread."

"True…" he conceded.

"I'm pretty damn invincible—at least, my stomach is, anyway." She rubbed her midriff nervously, always glancing at the door. They straightened up once they heard footsteps coming toward them. The door swung open, once more, and before them stood none other than Bethany.

At first glance, Varric thought she appeared different—gaunter, deeper set eyes, a more severe expression. But…it was still undeniably Bethany, down to the small crease between her brows, a sure sign that she was peeved.

"Hello Hawke," she began sternly. She nodded towards him with a milder expression. "Varric."

"Beth." Hawke uttered the name very softly, almost a whisper, as if in disbelief.

"As you can see, I am alive. That should suffice and set your mind at ease. Now please stop that blasted din outside. Anything I had to say to you I expressed in my letter."

"Thank the Maker, Bethany: you are alive," Hawke continued, in that mesmerized tone.

"Indeed." With that she turned on her heels. "Good-bye."

Hawke stiffened.

"Bethany Amelline Hawke!" her voice boomed through the hoarseness.

Bethany whirled around.

"Amelline?" Varric mouthed silently, puzzled.

"You stop right there," Hawke began, every inch the older, authoritative sibling. "That's no way to talk to me."

"I could say the same," Bethany countered.

"What the hell was that little act?" She put on a haughty air as she imitated her sister. " _Indeed_! _Good-bye!_ "

"How dare you come here and harass me like this? You have no right!" She was practically shouting.

_Good_ , Varric thought. _This is better than the indifferent chill she tried to pull off. Maybe we'll get somewhere_ _now_.

"I don't have a right? I fucking DO have a right! You are my sister! And I was worried sick about you!"

"It's always about YOU! How YOU feel! You chose this for me, remember? I had NO say!"

Hawke fell silent at her sister's outburst.

"And now…Now you come here to assuage your guilt? Your remorse? You want my blessing?" Bethany leaned towards her sister angrily. "I _love_ it here. It's _wonderful_. Thank you so much! There! Better?"

Hawke 's hands were balled up tightly.

"What do you want me to say? That I should have just stood by and let you die in my arms?"

"Why not? You showed Carver far more compassion in his last moments!"

"How dare you say such a cruel thing!" Hawke cried. "I couldn't do anything to save him and you know it!"

Varric quickly stepped between them. Now things were going to shit. Fast.

"You only kept me alive so you wouldn't have to suffer Mother's wrath!"

Hawke moved towards her and Varric rapidly gripped her by the arm. She didn't proceed, though. She merely contemplated Bethany.

"Yes…How dare I. How dare I try to keep my only sister alive. My beloved little sister." They stared at each other. "If I fought to keep you alive, forgive me, dearest. It was out of weakness, you are right. I was selfish. I couldn't stand it, Beth. I couldn't see you slip away. I could never raise my sword against you and I could never let anyone else hurt you. I couldn't bear it. I was desperate. I couldn't see you die. Not you," she stated gently. Bethany held still, her eyes fixed on Hawke, unblinking. "I still remember the morning you and Carver were born. Father stepped out of the room with a bundle in his arms…and he was so proud, Bethany. He said, 'a little boy and a little girl—here, meet your sister.' And he put you first in my arms. I held you and looked into your tiny face and I thought…I thought nothing: all I felt was love. I think I asked Mother and Father every day for a year if you were ready to play with me yet. So, when I held you back there, in the Deep Roads, your head resting on the crook of my arm, I remembered that day…and I was so afraid that this was life telling me we had come full circle, Beth."

Bethany blinked, her eyes moist.

"I'm no quitter. I am letting go now only because that is preferable to losing you forever. I don't know how to do this. It's so very hard. We've always, always been together. And now…You are setting off on a separate path. But I know one thing for sure: my love for you won't waver if we're apart. Distance changes nothing of how I feel for you. Just like I still love Carver with all my soul, wherever that cretin is beyond the Veil, and the first thing I will do when I meet him again, before I assail his stupid face with kisses, is put him in a headlock and yell at him for a good hour about charging a goddamn ogre on his own."

Varric found he had a lump in his throat.

"If you want to yell at me, yell all you want. Curse me to my last breath," Hawke continued gently. A tear streamed down Bethany's cheek even as she remained immobile. "Write me horrid letters. Blame it all on me. Tell me you hate me, if you want, I can bear it. Just know this: it won't change my love for you. Nothing will make me regret saving you."

Light filtered through the stained glass windows casting them in a bright glow. Varric watched, almost holding his breath, as Hawke stared at Bethany, her expression serene, but her eyes glassy. Bethany lowered her head for a few minutes until she finally raised it again, tearfully.

"Marian, I'm so scared. I've never felt so alone."

Hawke rushed to her sister and enveloped her in a tight embrace. Varric finally exhaled.

* * *

Stroud made an appearance to briefly announce it was time for Hawke to leave, but the two sisters pleaded with him.

"Bethany's circumstances are unusual," Hawke argued. "You have to agree. Please give us a moment—at least to dash a couple notes to loved ones back home," she insisted.

Stroud exchanged glances with Varric, who tilted his head and shrugged.

"I promise I'll leave after this," Hawke added.

"Very well," he agreed, betraying tiredness.

"But I'll be back again tomorrow…" Hawke muttered cheekily under her breath. Bethany grinned.

* * *

Bethany inked the quill Hawke had brought her. She was sitting next to her sister at the large table.

"This is hard and new and unknown…and we can't be together through it like we always have…BUT…It'll get easier. I have no doubt. You can do this. I mean, look at Anders. He was a Warden. " Bethany gave her a reproachful look. "Actually, scratch that…"

"I do know I am headed to Amaranthine for training soon."

"You're going to be the most kickass recruit there. I bet none of those yokels has ever fought darkspawn like you," Hawke mused.

"Everyone here is quite accomplished. There are soldiers and warriors from all walks of life."

"And a bunch of delinquents as well. Can you lock your door at night?" Hawke asked with sudden worry.

Bethany smiled, "I am not worried—everyone here is very decent, very respectful."

"I have no doubt: after all, they haven't tried to rope Anders back in. They can't be that desperate," Hawke snickered. "Do you need anything?" She rested her elbows on the table.

"No." Bethany was jotting down a few words in her elegant handwriting.

"We are rich now. I fully intend on spoiling you. You will want for nothing."

"That's all right."

"What do you need?" Hawke insisted.

"You better tell her or she will try to guess…and choose for you," Varric suggested, seated across from them.

"Oh, very well…It does get chilly here in the evenings. Perhaps a nicer blanket than the standard issue ones?" she asked.

Hawke pointed at Varric.

"You got that?"

He pulled out his little notebook and pencil again.

"Blanket."

"Blankets- plural. Fur." Hawke corrected. Bethany looked up from the parchment, surprised. "And warm bed slippers. In fact, we're getting you a whole collection…let's see: shirts, trousers, stockings, and boots."

"That's too much!" Bethany protested.

"Silky undergarments?" Hawke raised an eyebrow.

"That's wildly impractical!" she reasoned, a smile blooming on her lips.

"Silk garments it is!" Hawke decided.

"And a nice nightshirt?" Bethany asked timidly.

"And fine sheets and soft pillows, love! Whatever your heart desires. And you will receive a monthly deposit of gold to spend however you want." Hawke declared boldly.

Bethany resumed her writing with more verve.

"So…Amelline? What's that all about?" Varric asked across the table, his chin resting over his fist.

Bethany smiled.

"Mother wanted to give each of us the Amell name, but didn't want to flaunt such a distinguished surname when we were trying to be so discreet…So she…adapted the name into middle names for us.

Without moving, Varric grinned slyly.

"Is that so? Each of her children, eh?"

Hawke tossed her head back while Bethany tried not to laugh.

"Carver was "Carver Amellen Hawke," Bethany explained, enjoying her sister's squirming. They both turned to stare and chuckle at the obviously annoyed Hawke.

"She only did that with the twins, though," she sniffed, avoiding their gaze.

"Her full name is Marian Amella Hawke."

Hawke glared at Bethany.

"Amella!" he stated pointedly, relishing Hawke's discomfort. "How did I not know that?"

"I always wondered why Father let Mother do that." Bethany shrugged and resumed her writing.

"Because he could not deny her after she'd just given birth to his children, that's why." Hawke huffed. "Don't think I never called him out on that. Who the hell names their children Amella, Amellen, and Amelline? It's like announcing a trio of village idiots."

"Yes…not information we usually readily disclose," Bethany agreed. "I was very surprised to hear it again from you!" she teased.

"It worked, didn't it?" Hawke looked away. "It certainly got your attention…"

"Well, well…Lady Amella…" Varric began, delighted. "Very unique…I might even use it for a character in a future story."

"Oh, Messere Tethras…This sensitive information does NOT travel beyond these walls," she threatened.

"Of course, of course…I will wield such forbidden knowledge wisely." He grinned. "And to my advantage."

"Ah, shit," she grumbled. "You almost done there?" She nodded at Bethany, glancing at the letter she was writing.

"Almost. Just need to finish this one to Aveline."

Hawke collected the letters, already thrust into addressed envelopes, and appeared to be counting and sorting through them.

"I think you are forgetting someone," she concluded.

Bethany's expression grew gloomy again.

"That…I know. I do not know where to begin, with him. I should bid him farewell…but…I don't know that I want to," she confessed faintly.

Hawke pursed her lips.

"I don't see why you need to bid him farewell."

"I am a Warden now."

"So?"

"Wardens aren't supposed to—"

"King Alistair and Queen Elissa are Wardens. And they are very much a couple."

"But that's different," Bethany argued.

"And look at Anders," she insisted. "Bethany, it's all very hectic right now, but things will settle. You do not have to worry anytime soon about a Blight and everyone knows Wardens go about their business quite freely and independently throughout Thedas."

"That's just it, Hawke. I don't know where I'll be, what life will be like…I don't know if it's fair."

"I don't think that is something you can decide all by yourself," Varric finally added.

"Write to him. Tell him the truth," Hawke urged her.

Her sister ran her hand gently over a sheet of blank parchment.

"And what should I tell him?"

"Tell him you miss him. That you think about him. That your feelings haven't changed." Hawke squeezed her sister's shoulder reassuringly. "I think it will bring him more comfort than you realize. Don't underestimate him or how far he's come to reach a point where he was able to disclose his deepest feelings for you, dearest."

"Also, don't forget to tell him your middle name is Amelline," Varric joked.

Hawke snorted.

"You ass!" She turned back to Bethany, a lightness returning to her demeanor. "Also, spice it up a little, will you? Stick some hearts in there…He doesn't read very well: draw him some boobs, poor boy."

Even as Bethany retorted indignantly, scolding her sister, all three were having a hard time holding back their laughter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: The text in Bethany's letter is from the game. I found it so very cruel, in a way, and always wish Hawke would have had a heart-to-heart, perhaps avoiding that very sad estrangement between them.


	27. Chapter 27

Varric noticed Hawke walked back towards the inn with a springier step, clutching Bethany's letters to her chest. Those envelopes were a treasure of sorts, he understood; in a way, they were as precious as the fortune being hauled out of the Deep Roads.

"Bethany is _alive_ , Varric! She made it through!" she would repeat every once in a while. It was as if she were trying to make up for all the silence between them during the course of those first days, when grief weighed her down into silence. She had expounded to him, as if he'd needed convincing, that despite having to be a Grey Warden, Bethany now would experience a freer life. The Templars could no longer touch her. She could walk through Thedas without fear.

"And we don't have to worry about a Blight anytime soon," she reasoned. "It's not ideal, but I'm coming around to thinking that Bethany's situation in Kirkwall was precarious and, frankly, untenable. What? Was she going to go through life always in hiding? Always relying on us to secure her cover? Now she can decide on her own path."

"She's still a Warden, Hawke." He climbed the steep hill slowly, noticing that at that late hour the streets along the shore were glowing with lanterns hanging overhead. A breeze from the sea filled his nostrils with the briny odor of brackish water. It was comforting and familiar to him. Just walking towards the inn with Hawke, he thought, felt like home.

"Yes—but she is not like other Wardens who join out of necessity, to redeem themselves— _and_ she still has a family. I intend to remind them of that."

"Oh?" He peered up at the determined expression in her eyes.

"Here's my strategy: I'm pledging some gold to rebuilding Amaranthine," she explained. "That should earn us a little good will with the Order. After all, Bethany was supposed to be reaping the rewards of this expedition. I intend to see that she has the best of everything and has everything she could possibly dream of."

"I see." A grin surfaced on his lips. "So, you are shipping her Fenris in a crate?" he joked. She snorted and shook her head.

"Maker knows I will help them meet anytime I can. I am already planning to petition Stroud to allow Bethany to be stationed back in the Marches once her basic training in Amaranthine is complete."

Hawke was hopeful. Lively. She had almost returned to her old self, and for that Varric couldn't be more grateful. Still, he felt he needed to temper that unbridled enthusiasm. It didn't serve her well if he simply agreed with everything she was scheeming.

"At the end of the day, though, don't forget she is a Grey Warden. She serves the Order first—they will share their wisdom, guide her through her trials, and earn her loyalty … And that part of her life is something you will never fully understand or even have control over."

She said nothing to that. They approached the inn's gate and Varric reached for his key.

"I realize that. I fully realize that. But…" She faced him, her eyes bright with a candor and joy he had feared lost in her. "She is alive: anything is possible!"

* * *

They climbed the steps to their rooms speaking in hushed voices. It was a relief to speak to her freely again. Varric was tempted to invite Hawke back to his room. The prospect of saying good night just then filled him with dread. He wanted to remain in her company, but did not want to impose on her, either. During their dinner, after visiting Bethany, it seemed like they had talked about everything: Bartrand, Bethany, Kirkwall, Leandra, and gone over various possibilities and disaster scenarios. They had talked about so many pressing issues, except the one that he kept hoping would surface in their conversation: the two of them. For once, he couldn't gauge whether she was skirting the topic entirely or if he was reading too much into the omission. As they approached their respective rooms, he glanced at his door, debating whether he should just invite her back, at least to share a drink before bedtime. He decided against it as he watched her unlock her bedroom door.

"I'm exhausted," she admitted, throwing the door open. "I could use a soak in scalding water before turning in tonight."

He wistfully remembered late nights back in Kirkwall, when he'd be settled on his bed, paging through a book while she ran the tub in the washroom. He missed those times and that easy routine and intimacy they'd forged so effortlessly.

"I think you'll find the plumbing in this part of the world leaves much to be desired."

"Thank you," she said earnestly, as he halted before his door. "I can't thank you enough. You are the best."

He offered her a grin.

"No need to thank me." He stepped into his room. "Night," he called out, before shutting the door. As the lock turned, he thought the moment was bittersweet.

* * *

Varric absent-mindedly hung up his coat and tossed his sash and tunic on a chair. He undid his boots before throwing a few logs into the fire. After washing up, he decided to crack open one of the bottles of whisky on the elegant tray stationed on the table facing the fireplace, hoping it was of good enough quality to drink neat.

The strong, smoky liquor seared his throat while he leaned against the pillows on the bed. He clutched a heavy tumbler while leafing through the pages of a book unearthed from his pack. Try as he might, he was unable to focus on it for very long. At one point, he raised his eyes from the page and let his gaze wander over the flames.

 _Whatever she decides,_ _it will be all right. Even if she doesn't have it in her anymore to pursue this relationship_ , he told himself, as if settling an inner argument. _Our friendship is hardly a token consolation prize—It is essentially what has always been the best about us. There is no "just" friends—as if it were a less worthy role._

It was a noble speech, he decided. One that he could perhaps assign to a character in one of his stories: one about a remarkable man capable of loving the woman he desired altruistically and selflessly.

 _It'll be a splendid work of fiction._ He took another sip.

Truth was, he longed for her, for what they'd almost had.

 _Letting that go…what could have been…It won't be easy_ , he sighed. _But, I'll get there._

_I think._

He tried to resume his reading.

"He that can have patience can have what he will."

Varric grimaced and flipped the cover shut, deciding he was quite done reading for the night. He plunked his tumbler down on the night stand and allowed himself to drift off, arms folded behind his head.

* * *

The firm rap on his door startled him out of his slumber. He shot up, his hand swooping down to grip Bianca's smooth stock, ready to haul the crossbow up even in a groggy stupor.

"Who is it?" He would've liked to think that such disturbances were unique to maintaining a prolonged tenancy at the Hanged Man, but now he suspected it was something specific about _him_.

"It's Hawke!" the voice announced.

Still shaking off sleep, he made his way to the door.

"I'm freezing." She stood before him wrapped up in a heavy blanket, teetering from one foot to the other.

"Do you need me to light a fire for you in your quarters?" He peered out into the silent, darkened hallway.

"Like I need help setting things on fire!" She tugged the blanket tightly around herself. "Can I come in?"

"Yeah, sure." He stepped aside. She crossed the room and sat on the edge of the bed.

"So, I was wondering. Can you and I have a talk?" She was contemplating him as he yawned and lightly scratched his chest. "Crap.…Were you sleeping?"

"No!" He reached the poker and stoked the fire, stirring the embers and causing the burning logs to crackle. "I was just lying on the bed, resting my eyes..."

"I'm sorry…I must have lost track of time. I didn't mean to disturb you. Maybe it can wait until tomorrow," she added nervously, standing up again.

As tired as he was, he didn't want her to leave.

"I don't think so: now I won't be able to get to sleep unless you tell me what's going on." He reached for the bottle of whisky. "Want a drink?"

She pressed her lips together and stared at the gold-colored bottle.

 _Hm. Something's off_ …he surmised. She was acting cagey…nervous. Nervous…because of _him_? Because of what she had to tell him? Maybe it was because she was dreading what she had to tell him, he decided morosely. He poured himself a shot and offered her the glass. She shook her head at his offer. The silence was unnatural. He finally exhaled, resigned.

"All right: what's going on?"

"Ok!" She grimaced. "I thought this would be a lot easier."

He tensed at her uneasiness.

"This whole scenario…played out very differently in my head, you know."

"Oh?" was all he was able to utter.

She let out a little self-deprecating laugh.

"I am so very bad at this."

He gripped the glass firmly.

"My advice is: don't prolong it. Just get it over with."

 _Whatever she has to say to me, it will be all right. I don't think I can just stop loving her, but I'll have to learn to let go_ , he braced himself.

"I…don't want you to think any less of me. But the truth is…I can't. I thought I could go through with it, but it's too much right now," she turned her eyes to the ceiling as if collecting her thoughts.

"I see." He conjured his calmest, most soothing tone despite the crushing disappointment he felt.

 _These things, they can't be forced, really. Feelings can't just be willed, on a whim_. _It isn't her fault. The timing is shit, anyway._ Who knew what other bad news awaited them when they returned to Kirkwall? Someday, he told himself, he'd be grateful for that brutal honesty of hers.

"I kept telling myself: you can! Hang in there! But…these last days. I feel like I've been to the Black City…and somehow made it back in one piece." She cast him a skittish look. He was listening intently, but he couldn't will himself to smile, to suppress his complete misery. Instead, he blinked at her sadly, steadying himself for the final blow. "But, I am so tired of feeling this way, Varric. Tired of feeling all this worry, all this tension every waking hour." She placed her clenched fist over her chest. "I wish I were a stronger person. I wish I could stand by my convictions."

"It's all right, Hawke," he said gently, placing his tumbler back on the tray. Why did he bother with the glass, anyway? He was going to guzzle down that whiskey straight from the bottle once she left the room. "If anything, thank you for telling me this and not holding it in."

She stared at him.

"I understand," he reassured her. "More than you may realize. You've been through so much." Feeling leaden, he didn't know what to do with his hands. He thrust them into his pockets as he examined the ground. "You know I won't make any demands of you, whatsoever. So, don't even worry about that. I just want to ensure that this won't hurt our friendship. That, I wouldn't want to go without," he added wistfully. He managed a wan grin. "And who knows… Someday, if you think you're ready, that you would like to give it another go… Who knows, right? You know where to find me."

She blinked nervously.

"Uh…Wait…What?"

She appeared so confused that he suspected that she had been bracing herself for an angry cross-examination. But from _him_ , of all people? Didn't she know him?

"I'm telling you: it's all right, Hawke. You don't owe me. I appreciate your being honest."

She contemplated him with utter stupefaction.

"Oh, fuck," she mumbled, realization finally dawning upon her. "You think I am here to…Wow!"

It was his turn to balk.

"Well, _aren't_ you?"

"Aren't I what?"

"You tell me!" he countered, a familiar twinge of exasperation needling him.

"You think I am here to…Tell you I am no longer interested in pursuing…" She began to point between them. "This? Us? _YOU_?" she continued, incredulously.

He squeezed his eyes shut for a few seconds.

"Well, what the hell is it, then? I mean, how else am I supposed to interpret this conversation?" He was confronted with her odd expression, a certain mystified air about her. "Shit, Hawke! Do you mind explaining what's going on?"

"I didn't cock it up, did I?" She bit her lip. "I mean, aren't I being pretty obvious?"

He crossed his arms.

"You most certainly aren't and you better explain before I lose what precious little I have left of my mind. What the fuck were you going on about with that bit on not being able to do this, wishing you were a stronger person who could stand by her convictions?" His brow was deeply furrowed.

"Well, ah...you see, I was in my room trying to think," she began.

"A new hobby? Me, too! I was here in my room trying this thing called 'sleep.' I'm giving up on it, though: too complicated!" he provoked.

"Do you want an explanation or do you want to piss me off?" she scolded him, narrowing her eyes.

"Mostly the first, with a hint of the second." They scowled at each other for a few moments. "Well, go on, for Andraste's sake!"

"I was wondering, back in my room…No, it was more like… Hoping…That perhaps…" She grimaced in frustration at her own ineptitude. "Anyway: you know how we had talked and I had asked you if you would talk to Bianca first, before we…Because we had talked about it and even though we wanted to, I didn't think it would be right if we just…I mean, not before you settled matters, you see…And we had agreed to wait?… So I kept thinking back in my room tonight: who knows how quickly that will happen?…But don't get me wrong! I still feel strongly about that. You absolutely should, because it's the right thing to do—for you and because….Fresh starts, right? Start things off on the right foot, you know?"

 _Oh, Maker. You are going to be the death of me if you keep this up_ , he thought, his heart racing as he sorted through her inane babbling.

"I am going to give you some solid storytelling advice," he began in a measured tone.

"But I'm not…"

"Get. To. The. Point."

"I did! I thought I was being crystal clear!"

"You're going to have to do better than that! Now: what do you want?"

"I was wondering if it would be all right! Just this once! If we could…You know…" She was terribly nervous and her face was flushed. "Just one time and then you would do like we agreed and follow through on the plan and talk properly to Bianca and all, and we can just…Not mention this…It's not really official yet…It'll be a one-time thing?" she dithered on nervously. "Because I don't think I can wait much longer," she hinted.

His mouth went dry.

"Are you saying what I think you're saying?"

"And what do you think I'm saying?" she challenged him. He gazed at her bare feet, her toes buried in the bedside rug's shag. _Bare feet_. A blanket cloaked around her…And it was so very cold that evening… _Varric, you idiot…You completely misread the situation._ He looked away, finally cracking the broadest grin, realization dawning upon him.

"I see…I'm very, very sorry. I never, in a hundred years, would have presumed that you had come here tonight to—"

"Seduce you." she completed, seriously. "Maker, you are _daft_!" she complained.

He snorted.

"Yeah."

"Well! This is a seduction. In progress. But I was going to go about it very differently at first," she admitted. "I had a fool-proof scenario planned."

"Oh?"

"I was going to knock on your door and tell you that I had been robbed while I was in the bath."

He appraised the revelation.

"Quite ruthless of you. I would have been duly concerned." He sat on the edge of the bed and reached for her hand, tugging her to him.

"After that, I would lament that the thieves had taken nothing of value, except my clothing."

He chuckled again as she sat beside him.

"And I would have said, 'What is this world coming to!' Although we can agree that the inferred value of those clothes at this point of the wretched expedition is greatly inflated."

"Then," she continued, glancing at how he ran his thumb over the back of her hand. "I would tell you that I had deduced that it was a crime perpetrated by perverts with a dirty laundry fetish. I'd assure you that it's quite common as fetishes go. I would claim even to know a certain debauched dwarf who hangs on to the garments of his past conquests."

"I would have to promptly scold you on the reprehensible company you keep." He brought her wrist up to his lips and kissed the pale skin gently, inhaling her warm, inviting scent.

"And then I would do this," she said in a decisive tone, removing her hand from his grasp and standing up again. When he peered up at her questioningly, she released the blanket, revealing herself to be completely naked. He inhaled sharply, for a moment wondering if he was hallucinating. She held still, expectant and unsure of how to proceed; knowing her, she was probably wondering if he had appreciated her gesture.

"Maker's Breath…Why didn't you just do that first?" he finally managed to reply in a low voice.

She had the audacity to blush and gather up the blanket again, covering herself up hastily.

"I was going to…but then you actually opened the door and were standing there all shirtless and...Maker, I… I lost my nerve…" she admitted. At his raised eyebrow, she reached out and lightly brushed a fingertip down his chest. Her touch was setting him on fire. "My mind went…completely blank…"

"Then let me give you a friendly hand," he began, grasping the edge of the intruding blanket.

Before she could protest, he yanked it off and flung it clear across the room. How long had he waited for that moment? He let his lusty gaze sweep over her: the small, pert breasts, her nipples achingly taut, just begging to be kissed. He could feel himself harden as his gaze dropped lower, to her rounded hips, her belly, and the soft dark hair between her legs.

Maker, she was everything he ever wanted.

Flustered at his unashamed appreciation of her, she shyly folded her arms over her breasts. A fierce rush of desire assailed him.

"Cold?" he asked. She nodded.

He gripped her arm and yanked her to the bed. She let out a small, surprised cry as she toppled over the coverlet. "I'll keep you warm," he grinned roguishly, leaning over her. "C'mere." He sought her mouth, kissing her roughly, hungrily, savoring her taste again, loving the feel of her skin against his.

"Varric," she said breathlessly, when they broke away from the kiss. He buried his face in her neck, kissing her behind her ear. "Varric," she said again, more insistently, placing her hand on his shoulder. He opened his eyes. "It's not fair!" she protested weakly. "I was supposed to be the one seducing you."

He chuckled.

"Well, it worked. Consider me thoroughly and successfully seduced. Now, where were we?" He nuzzled her neck as she closed her eyes.

* * *

His breath was hot over her skin, his lips smooth as his kisses glided down her neck, over her breasts. Her fingers tangled in his red hair when he kissed and sucked her nipples, his tongue tracing the tips tantalizingly.

When his hand slid down over her stomach, resting right below her navel, she gasped at the flutter of anticipation she felt. He peered up at her and let his fingers trail down further. His touch was feathery light, just the faintest brush, so agonizingly close to where she desperately wanted him to touch her. He pulled himself up, lying astride her, and turned her face back to his, kissing her deeply. Momentarily distracted, she was surprised by a wave of arousal as he slipped his hand between her legs and began to stroke her, his fingers expertly, slowly caressing her clit.

"Maker, you are so excited," he whispered huskily in her ear. As she wriggled closer against him, she felt his erection against her hip.

"Well, remember I told you I had been thinking of us before coming over?" She closed her eyes. "I didn't tell you what I was imagining us doing …"

He let out a moan and she grinned, pleased her words had had such an effect on him. Both their breaths quickened. He took her hand and placed it over the hard bulge in his trousers.

"I want to hear all of it…" he challenged her. She undid the laces to his trousers the best she could until she was able to slip her hand through the front and reach for his erection. At the feel of her fingers wrapping around him and stroking him, he hissed and it was his turn to close his eyes.

"Now who's excited?" she teased.

He opened an eye.

"All right: why does everything have to be a competition with you?" He tugged his trousers down. _So much for soulful, reverent sex,_ he smiled to himself. He felt a shiver as he contemplated all the salaciously delicious things he wanted to do to her to make her melt in his arms, to bring her more bliss than she had ever known possible. He kissed her shoulder, rolling over her, parting her legs further with his knee. He kissed her mouth more intensely, just as he lowered his hips, pushing himself against her, finding her so wet, so eager for him. He grinned with satisfaction when she let the softest moan escape, her hips undulating against him, seeking relief from all that teasing he was putting her through.

"I think you liked that," he whispered in her ear again.

He was willing to indulge that juvenile playfulness she brought to everything, loving their little intimate game of seduction, calculating his next strategic move, when he looked at her. It was his turn to catch his breath, his roguish grin fading. The expression on her face was devastatingly sweet and loving. She tenderly stroked his cheek, her hands trembling slightly, as if overcome with emotion. It was exquisite, he thought, briefly resting his forehead against hers, both of them holding still. He felt her chest rise against his, his heartbeat deafening as the blood rushed against his ears.

"Varric." Her hand caressed his face. "Make me yours."

She nearly sent him over the edge by asking him that. He pushed himself up, angling his hips, and guided himself into her completely. His senses were ablaze as her softness and warmth enveloped him. When he began to thrust, their gazes locked as if acknowledging the threshold they were crossing. Her arms wrapped around him, hugging him to her with surprising urgency, full of need. She panted softly, her breath hot against his cheek as her hands trailed over his back. It was his turn to be overwhelmed.

He held her her tightly, kissing her eyes, her nose, and her mouth, between sighs and moans. _I almost forgot what it is like to feel such complete love alongside all this desire._

He knew when she was close, feeling her tense and still, her back arching slightly; but before she could surrender, he stopped.

She opened her eyes, flustered.

"Varric? Is anything—"

Before she could complete the sentence, he swiftly flipped her, placing her on top of him, her legs straddling his hips.

"What are you doing?" she asked, surprised. He gripped her waist firmly and bucked his hips. She gasped with pleasure.

"If this is a one-time deal," he said in a raspy voice, "you better believe I am going to make every second count."

* * *

The morning light crept in through the shutters—but Hawke didn't dare move from where she was. Varric was asleep, his arm braced around her. Every once in a while she would look at him—as if to confirm he was really there, that everything had really happened. With her fingertip she gingerly traced his profile, smiling impishly when he scrunched his nose, grunting lightly. He swatted aimlessly at her hand and she stifled a giggle.

It had been impulsive of her to go there like that, after her grandiloquent speeches about properly breaking up with Bianca, starting their relationship fresh, et cetera, et cetera… But she hadn't been able to hold her emotions in any longer. She needed to feel something other than the dread and sadness that had overcome her and Varric was the one person who could make her feel whole again.

 _And beautiful. And loved_ , she thought, grinning almost bashfully as she remembered Isabela's prediction months before.

The ground was cold under her feet as she carefully unwound herself from his embrace and collected her blanket as quietly as she could.

 _This was a one-time thing. We yielded to a moment of need, is all_ , she told herself. _It's not time yet—there is just too much going on right now for me to demand his attention, to ask him to give this the fair chance it deserves_. She gave him a delicate peck on the lips, a tingle running up her spine as she recalled the previous night.

 _No, not yet_ , she thought, a small ache in her chest blooming as she thought of Bartrand and Bianca and all the headaches waiting for them in the daylight. She shut the door to his room behind her. B _ut soon_ , she reassured herself. _Very soon,_ she hoped, with all her heart.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. The quote Varric reads in his book is by Benjamin Franklin.
> 
> 2\. This chapter took a long time because I wallow in a toxic brew of self-loathing, angst, and doubt anytime I write sexy scenes. On the plus side: if I'm taking forever to update, it's because there's probably sexy times comin' 'round!
> 
> 3\. Yes, Hawke is being a doofus. But self-doubt and insecurity are beastly. See #2.


	28. Chapter 28

Varric opened his eyes just as the door clicked shut. He'd decided not to follow Hawke.

_If she needs some space, I need to respect that. There is no way we can pretend nothing meaningful happened between us last night. She can kid herself all she wants that all we did was let off some steam._

He rolled over, letting his arm rest over her side of the bed—it was rumpled and still warm. _She's fixated on Bianca despite any reassurances I've offered her. She can be so… stubborn? Old-fashioned? About certain things…I can't chase her, as much as I might want to_ , he decided. _But…Damn…I don't think I can wait for a final resolution with Bianca. That could still take months and months…_

He scratched his stubble, mired in thought.

 _Maybe Hawke won't be able wait that long, either._ Varric grinned slightly, recalling the previous night.

 _Patience_ , he thought, remembering his book's fortuitous quote. He let his mind roam for a bit, sleepiness slowly encroaching upon him. _What do I know? I never expected last night. She might be back for more._

He exhaled loudly.

_This waiting game is about to get really interesting._

* * *

Hawke stared at the uneven edge she had gnawed along her nail.

 _Stop_ , she ordered herself.

Every little noise unnerved her while she soaked in the large tub. She found herself teetering between wishing Varric would stomp across the hall, burst through the door, and drag her back to his bed to ravage her for the remainder of the day… and the more somber and definitely less fun wanting to proceed with the day's business with nothing more than a conspiratorial wink to acknowledge the night's previous…events.

 _I shouldn't have done that. That was really impulsive and brash of me._ She let herself sink deeper into the tub. _But was it really such a terrible thing? I think we both needed that._ She smiled, remembering how he gazed over her with a wolfish expression, and his hands—Maker, his hands were large and strong; he'd held her so tightly against him…But he was gentle, too— he knew just how to make her melt when he—

 _Okay! Moving right along!_ she commanded herself, plunking her soapy washcloth into the water.

 _What about those lips?_ She wiggled her toes gleefully. _He likes to kiss_ , she thought giddily. _He really knows how, too, the devil._ A small shiver ran up her spine when she thought of those full, soft lips against hers, his stubble lightly prickling her cheeks…her thighs…

"Gaaah!" Hawke threw the washcloth across the washroom in frustration.

_I have to think of other things, or I won't make it through the morning!_

_Think of an unpleasant thought…but not something too depressing. There's a buttload of those._

_Bran!_ She decided triumphantly. _Fucking Bran to the rescue. Pompous, smarmy bastard—who'd ever think you'd be useful for anything?_

The pleasant tingle that memories of the previous night had aroused in her subsided swiftly at the thought of the unyielding, sycophantic seneschal.

 _Remember!_ she encouraged herself: _Bran turning us away time and again from speaking to the Viscount._

A surge of anger seized her, and she welcomed it gladly.

Then there was the time Bran informed her and Varric that the Viscount was not available for an audience with anyone and minutes later allowed some ass-faced noble who stopped by without an appointment waltz past them as they gaped in disbelief.

She wanted to punch Bran in the nuts just as badly at that moment as had wanted to back then.

 _This is awesome_ , she decided.

So many memories of Bran looking down on her, making veiled, derogatory comments about Fereldans!

And what about Bran clapping his hands and shooing them from the landing at Viscount's Keep that one time they'd hurried over to report a plot against Kirkwall? He hadn't been the least bit interested in listening to their warnings and pleas for backup! Their dripping sweat and blood on his precious marble floors had been far more threatening. They'd had to get poor Aveline to rally the guards, even the ones who were off duty, to go foil the attack. Varric had been furious. That had also been the first time she had seen him shirtless—Hadn't it? Yes—it had been that night: they had hobbled back to the Hanged Man after that shit fest, all battered and sore, and she vividly recalled his tearing off his tunic in front of the mirror and hissing at the deep bruises on his torso. She'd been mesmerized even back then not only by his muscular, compact physique but by the lush ginger-colored hair growing over his taut chest.

 _It's so wonderfully soft_ , she thought, slipping down into the water again, a goofy grin on her lips. It had felt divine to run her fingers through it, nuzzle it, to feel his chest heave at her touch, his heartbeat and the tickle of the hair when she rested her cheek on it…

She ripped the stopper from the tub in exasperation.

_Fuck, Bran! Some help you are: you can't do anything right!_

* * *

Hawke nearly hollered with surprise when the knock came at last: a steady, persistent knock. She briefly inspected her image in the large mirror over the dresser, trying to flatten wayward wisps of hair over her head.

"Yes?" she managed to utter sultrily as she let the door swing open.

"If you don't hurry, they're going to stop serving breakfast," Anders announced peevishly. He contemplated her for a moment. "Well! You are looking more rested for once. Even got some of your color back!" he concluded.

"Where's Varric? Is he up yet?" She craned her neck in an attempt to glance past Anders even as her cheeks flushed crimson.

Anders grimaced.

"Oh, is he _ever_! He's already gone into town and is currently with some associates downstairs." He crossed his arms. "Come on—I am afraid of being alone with him when he's being so efficient and I haven't even had a proper mug of tea: he's already found me an errand to run after breakfast."

* * *

Her heart was pounding when she made her way down the stairs to the inn's dining room. An assortment of fresh-baked pastries awaited them on a long table. Fresh bread had been stacked artfully in a large basket and ubiquitous "pots-de-beurre" had been laid out for guests. The room was virtually empty at that point—servants had begun the tedious chore of busing the tables. Varric held court further inside the room, accompanied by two dwarves. One of them wore the usual formal finery she had learned to associate with the merchant guild while the other one wore high-quality leather armor. She plucked some bread and a small ramekin of butter. Anders stepped up beside her, his plate holding a small mound of pastries, bread, and fruit.

"Wow—sure you got enough there? I think you forgot to claim the table ornaments. But I suppose you can always come back for seconds," she provoked.

"I have an insatiable hunger, my dear Hawke." Anders cocked an eyebrow at her.

Hawke smirked and glanced at Varric. He was engrossed in whatever one of his associates was telling him: he wore a somber expression and a deeply furrowed brow. She decided not to interrupt their meeting, but before she walked by their table, one of the chairs slid across the polished floor to block her path. She startled for a second, before realizing that Varric had pushed it out with his foot, aware of her presence, after all, even if he hadn't made eye-contact with her. With a firm pat to the chair's seat, he invited her to sit beside him.

She and Anders joined the group, exchanging perfunctory greetings with the dwarves.

"I should head back to the docks. I don't want to attract anymore attention to my ship than necessary." The merchant dwarf pushed away from the table.

"How many trips do you think it will take?" Varric leaned forward.

"Only one. More than that and we push our luck. The cargo has been divided between the Ciriane and the Lady Perendale." The dwarf grinned conspiratorially. "The Lady shipped out last night. It succeeded in avoiding Orlesian customs."

"I would expect no less." Varric grinned back.

Hawke and Anders proceeded to eat, with the dwarves fairly oblivious to their presence. She allowed her eyes to occasionally wander from her dish to Varric's face: he'd swept his hair into a half-tail and she admired the strong, square jaw and the broken nose that had never set properly with a lusty affection. Further examination inevitably led to his chest beneath the revealing red tunic he wore. He was also wearing his thick gold necklace. She liked teasing him about it: she called it his "Do-you-know-who-you're-talking-to?" necklace.

"Hey," he teased in a low voice, catching her shameless ogling when one of the dwarves addressed Anders. "My face is up here, you know."

She suppressed a grin, meeting his warm golden eyes.

* * *

"The good news," Varric explained as they walked down the hill from the inn, "is that no one has seen Bartrand in Kirkwall. Not only that, he hasn't attempted to move funds from any of our business or personal accounts."

"Hm," Anders puzzled.

The three of them were walking down the hill, toward the trade quarter in Jader.

"Do you think Bartrand's dead?" Anders wondered.

Varric shrugged.

"From your mouth to the Maker's ears." He peered at the water beyond the sea wall further down the road. "He certainly is, to me. I am making sure he has no more access to any of the family's business accounts." He rubbed his forehead. "Once I return to Kirkwall, I'll have to take over…everything."

Hawke caught the tone of resignation in his voice. She knew how much he hated that aspect of his life and all the bureaucracy that came with it.

"He had to pull this shit right before the biggest haul our family has ever taken in. And now? I have to manage everything alone. Bartrand may not have been good for much, but he certainly was great at being deshyr and handling all the bullshit. Great timing to become a backstabber, brother. You could have at least figured out the taxes before losing your shit."

They strolled until they reached a row of doorways facing the sea. Hawke took a deep breath of misty sea air.

"Say, Hawke," Varric called to her as he checked an address off a crumpled wad of paper. "Did you sleep well last night?"

She briefly narrowed her eyes at him, wary of Anders' presence.

"There's something…different about you today," he continued roguishly. "Don't you think, Anders?"

"I know! I noticed as well!" Anders seconded. "I even said so when I met her this morning—there's color to her complexion again."

"I slept…very well!" she managed to say, growing agitated. "How about you? Did _you_ sleep well?" She widened her eyes at him in exasperation.

"Mmm…You have no idea—best sleep of my life," he teased, casting her a sly grin.

They halted before a weathered wooden door, its decorative metal scrollwork crusted heavily with salt and rust.

"All right, Blondie: it's all you now. I promised my associate a healer, no questions asked, in exchange for some timely oversights from Orlais' Society of Antiquities and Historical Artifacts before we embark home."

"Just what are you involving me in?" Anders shuddered.

"Just a little exchange among old friends. My associate eases our way home and I offer him the medical aid he needs for one of his top agents, who was injured in the field. The nature of the injury would have definitely drawn the local authorities' attention had they gone to a local healer."

Anders winced.

"Sweet barefoot Andraste, what kind of injury does the man have?"

Varric cleared his throat.

"It's not a man, you see: it's a woman."

"Ah."

"And you better help her. If you fail, we might have to walk to Kirkwall. And carry all our cargo."

"Oh?"

"See, the agent in question is my associate's mistress. Hence the additional need for discretion." Varric rapped on the door, while both he and Anders exchanged tart grins. The door opened slightly and Varric slipped in after peering about, ensuring they weren't being observed by curious eyes. A few moments later he ushered Anders in.

Hawke sat on the sea wall, waiting, watching the foamy waves lap hypnotically at the shore for several minutes. She'd been distracted by a flock of sandpipers when she caught the tail end of Varric's conversation further off, behind her.

"He's the best—don't worry about a thing."

The door shut behind Varric and he crossed the narrow road. He placed a hand on her shoulder.

"Hey."

They looked at each other until they both cracked grins, both a little tongue-tied. He finally leaned closer, speaking softly, close to her ear.

"I was yanking your chain a bit earlier, but I meant what I said: there's something about you today. You look…so beautiful."

"Could it be because I bathed this week?" she joked nervously. He grinned again and shook his head slowly, sitting beside her.

"All right: why can't you just take the damn compliment?"

"Well, what—what about… you?" she began, flustered.

"What about me?" he was enjoying their little awkward exchange. He loved that she was in a tizzy and that he was the reason behind it.

"You look…" She halted, searching for the right words. She found herself floundering. All she could do was smile at him. "I don't even know where to begin," she admitted.

Varric let his hand travel to the back of her neck and began rubbing it gently.

 _I know what you mean_ , he thought tenderly.

"What are your plans today?" he asked.

"I was planning on visiting Bethany for a bit— I also want to see if I can meet with Stroud."

He rested his hand palm up between them and glanced at her tentatively. She immediately understood and slipped her hand in his.

"What are you hoping to learn from Stroud?"

"When they are leaving for Amaranthine. What he foresees for my sister in the near future. I need to ask if there is any way he would consider stationing her in Kirkwall."

"You know the Wardens aren't very well-liked by the Templars at Kirkwall," he reminded her. "The Wardens have interfered too often in mage-related matters. Notice there haven't been any Grey Warden headquarters in Kirkwall in a very long time. If there are plans for one any time soon, it would be a very sensitive and strategic post—and I doubt the Wardens would be sending any mages to represent the order."

"You're right… But I thought…Maybe she'd be somewhere close by. At least back in the Marches. I just…I don't like this. I wish she were coming home with us."

"Look, you said so yourself: she's alive. This is the price to pay for that boon. You need to give her time. Let her sort through all these changes a bit and get comfortable with who she is now." Hawke was glancing down at their hands, their fingers entwined. "She'll get there, Hawke. Trust her. Let her know you care—but also let her decide for herself what she wants, what direction she wishes to go." She nodded sadly. "I think she's going to amaze you."

"What are you up to today?" she finally asked.

"Let's see: finalizing a deal with a couple kalnas representatives of the Shaperate… You're still ok with my handing over the official records we found in Valdasine, right? And the two gold paragon statues?"

Hawke feigned deep annoyance.

"How dare you! I wanted those dwarven statues standing on each side of my bed."

Varric chuckled.

 _And I'd actually prefer to have this dwarf IN my bed_. She bit her lower lip.

"Going for the Antivan merchant prince look? Some say it's gaudy, but why not flaunt your assets if you have them?"

"Well said by the man who lives in Lowtown, upstairs from a tavern," Hawke ribbed him. "Tell you what—we'll go halfsies on the statues. You can have the bearded lady one."

"It's not a beard, you nut: it was the fashion back in the day—women gathered their braids and fastened them right beneath their chins."

"I believe that trend coincided with a vertiginous drop in birth rates." Hawke declaimed.

"Works with the saying about Orzammar, right? 'Where the men are men, the women are men, and the nugs are scared.'"

She snorted, amused.

"Anyway, I also need to begin penning the motion I have to present at the next merchant guild meeting. If Bartrand continues to give no sign of life, I will push to be made sole deshyr of our house until Bartrand's legal claims expire, in about a year."

"I'm so sorry you have to deal with all this now, on top of everything."

He couldn't resist. If he couldn't actively pursue her, he could at least let her know how he felt.

"Yeah—almost everything went wrong." He lowered his eyes. "But last night, Hawke—it makes all that more bearable."

"Are you referring to the dinner we had? Or to me? Because—" she began nervously.

He raised her hand and brushed his lips against her knuckles, planting a kiss over her fingers.

"Can you just stop right there and accept the fucking praise?"

"I'm not used to this," she protested.

"You'll have to get over it because I adore you."

"Ok: now you're being unreasonable." But she was smiling broadly. "Because I adore you _more_ ," she offered in a soft voice, her eyes lowered and her cheeks flushed.

 _Does she have any idea of how fucking seductive she is when she says adorable things like that? Just bares her emotions to me this way? Prove it_ , he thought headily. _Show me—come back to my bed tonight_ , he wanted to tell her. He shooed the impulse away. _Careful—if you say anything, she'll just dig her heels in. It's almost as if she needs to punish herself if the world isn't doing it already._

"And there you go competing with me again." He was smiling as well.

"Last night was…like a dream. It almost doesn't seem real, does it?" she murmured.

"So: you practically become a wealthy woman overnight and are in the process of restoring your family's name and estate in Kirkwall…but what you can't believe is that you successfully seduced _me_?" he teased.

"Well, what I can't believe is…how EASY it was!" she joked.

"You ass!" he laughed. "And you'd imagine I'd be inured to a woman walking into my room naked, given that Isabela does it all the time."

Hawke's eyes actually widened.

"What the fuck!"

He chuckled.

"Not much of a story, actually. It was only once. And she was drunk off her pirate ass. I gave her a blanket and she unceremoniously fell asleep right on my table. Kept yelling, 'Fire the cannon!' every once in a while. I suspect she was having a dirty dream." He gripped her hand tighter. "You're not seriously worried, are you? I was just joking."

"I know that. I trust you, Varric," she stated earnestly.

 _You slay me, woman_ , he thought, his heart full. _I love this side of you—and I love that I am the only one who gets to see it_ , he realized.

In the nearby distance, a bell tolled. All the day's business was tugging him away—as usual, he realized guiltily.

"Hawke, you won't like to hear this—but we need to leave Jader soon. Once the last cargo ship is allowed to embark, we'll have to head back."

She pressed her lips tightly.

"There is so much you need to be at the helm of now," he explained. "You need to understand what is happening at your mine so you aren't taken advantage of, you need to make sure the proceedings for the Amell estate are moving forward, and you need to safeguard your wealth."

Hawke had that telltale panicked expression she tended to display anytime he needed to talk about finances and business with her.

"Tell me something: did anything I just say register in that hard head of yours?"

"You lost me the moment you mentioned the mine: I started thinking of Hubbert, the human air freshener, and, I'm sorry, I missed all the rest.

Varric pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Yeah, I thought so. Please tell me you're going to follow the advice I give you, at least."

She linked her arm in his as they prepared to walk toward the center of town.

"Don't worry: everything will turn out all right. I think the worst is behind us. Has to be, no? I mean, Andraste's tassled titties, what else is lying in store, right?"

He dearly wanted to believe she was right. For her…For all their sakes.


End file.
